


An Avoidable Heart

by Certified_Ceraunophile



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Caroline, BUT BECAUSE THIS FAMILY SITCOM NEEDS A HOME BASE, But also, CAROLINE BEING A BAMF!, Canon Compliant, Did I Mention, F/M, FEEL THE, Fluff and Smut, I REPEAT BAMF!Caroline, KINDA darker Klaus, NO SUPERNATURAL MAGICAL ZOMBIFIED SPERM BABIES, Smut, The Original Family in NOLA, The Original's Family Dynamic, Y'all feel me, just read it yall, kinda slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27026968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Certified_Ceraunophile/pseuds/Certified_Ceraunophile
Summary: EARLIER TITLED: IT'S TOUCH REGRETTABLE“Now as I was saying, a message to your brother, if you will, tell him;On the day of Samhain when the full moon is at its apex, we will arrive at the Abattoir, tell him to gather his men close and his family closer, we will arrive bearing a lost token of centuries past belonging to the Mikaelson Name. One of grave importance, Should he choose to neglect my message, tell him regret will eat away at the very marrow of his bones, of that I am sure. After all a chance like this appears only once in a millennium.”It tickles him, This Caroline women and her missive,How delightfully ambitious,It seems the evening's entertainment has been arranged for, do indulge him sweetheart, he's looking forward to it.After all such Intrepid souls, such audaciously dauntless minds are far and few in between, It's about time he fell in step with another one of your kind.
Relationships: Caroline Forbes/Klaus Mikaelson, Davina Claire/Kol Mikaelson, Marcel Gerard/Rebekah Mikaelson
Comments: 60
Kudos: 81





	1. Hollowed Aureole.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BABYKLAROBEAN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BABYKLAROBEAN/gifts).



> NAME CHANGED FROM "IT'S A TOUCH REGRETTABLE"  
> THIS WORK IS FOR THE KLAROLINE FALL BINGO EVENT
> 
> Prompt: Samhain. Samhain is a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter or the "darker half" of the year. Traditionally, it is celebrated from 31 October to 1 November,
> 
> Ok, disclaimer: I’m taking major, major liberties with the basic supernatural structure of the universe JP has created, I’ve bent a few rules, broken many of em and made many more, now none of these new rules or ‘revised framework’ of the world I’ve created are far too unrealistic or improbable (Like, IDK, a certain magical unicorn zombiefied-sperm baby out of an Australian werewolf joke-of-a-trope, or the redemption story arc of a thousand year old temperamental psychopathic man-child with daddy issues, but apparently c’est la vie.) these rules are perfectly consistent with each other, just somewhat inconsistent with the TVD-verse but hey that’s the entirety of TO so who’s counting anyway?

* * *

* * *

She's been watching him for a while now, and she's sure, he's the ripest fruit for the picking. Close enough to the ‘ _King’s’_ second in command, far away from the ‘ _King’_ himself.

The King of this oppressively sultry Kingdom,

The autumn humidity is doing nothing for her hair.

_‘Kingdom.’_

She scoffs.

Honestly, it’s a freaking city, hell it’s not even the whole city, its one half of a quarter of the city, called the French Quarter and the inhabited parts of a seemingly uninhabited Bayou, and he's pretentious enough to call himself _King_.

_King Klaus Mikaelson, the Original Hybrid_

And the Royal Family; The Mikaelson Clan.

Honestly its intrepid,

Fealty sworn by the former de-throned King Marcel Gerard

Protege of one Klaus Mikaelson,

Ostentatious, short-sighted, over-confident, resident tyrannical asshole, all words she will freely use to describe said former protege.

Of course that does not mean, this Klaus character is any better or fairer, but for now he's having fun playing King, but he’ll get bored, soon enough, she's certain of it,

There are no kingdoms that last centuries under one man, even if said man is allegedly invincible, 

Its amusing, how he mixes up immortal with invincible.

Its not the same and its definitely not interchangeable with the other. She should know after all.

She can show him a thing or two about being truly invincible, but the price she paid for it, she doesn't think he’ll dive for it,

At least not immediately.

Absolute Infinite Power, untouchable strength, a Fortress of Protection, Impenetrable defence, unrelenting offence and True Invincibility, she has it all, you know, but the price she paid....

She wonders if he’ll be willing, she certainly wasn’t.

And if he is willing, he’s an even bigger fool than she thought.

But this playing at King business, it’s fairly new to him, he's doing acceptably well so far, judging by how many whisper against him in the dark, how little proclaim in the light.

Its when the whispers die down you have to be careful, its then that they are truly discontented, because these whispers don't diminish in reciprocation of their diminished plight, no men are _never_ satisfied, she should know.

It only hushes when they _don't_ _want_ the whispers to be heard, when its no longer whispers of unrest and complaint, its the whispers of planning and strike, formulated and dispersed amongst the masses, in the most still darkness and steady shadows.

Where else do you think the phrase ‘calm before the storm’ came from.

But here judging by the steady thrum of fairly discernible, restless whispers and the lack of open proclamation she can estimate a good half-century or so of relative stability, but thats only till this generation of witches and werewolves pass, the next,

Well they’ll have their own qualms and quandaries to be answered, and the Hybrid lacks the certain _flexibility_ , she believes.

But she digresses.

She’ll get back to this Ripe fruit she's been stalking —

Ugh. _Don't start._ She understands she doesn't need to be told, it’s _devolving_ of her, something as  pedestrian as stalking, but its a plan, one they've created and she’ll stick to it, its after all been in the making for the last four years.

And No, she doesn't spare two circulatory cycles of air to care what that awful quote about how planning rats and planning men both fail or some similar fatalistic crap, _Nope._

you _Plan, Perform and Prosper._ Thank you very much.

but she digresses again—

Oh yes, the thousand year old vampire she's been stalking.

His place in the Kingdom as his elder brother, the _‘King’_ declares— god, she can't even begin to assert how _kitschy_ the titles are— is that of the Royal Court Jester.

Kol Mikaelson, doesn't think its funny, but he’ll laugh and say, At least he’ll get paid for being a fool, you do it for free Nik.

Klaus is not amused, a few more barbs traded, few venom-tipped to the heart some blunt blows to the back of the head, then Elijah floats in and goes, “ _Children,_ Please.”

And then they band up together against the suit-laden gentleman, and it always somehow ends up with the conversation revolving around the ten-feet stick lodged up Elijah’s _‘arse’._

Its a soap opera and a half, if she's being honest. and she's got a front row seat for it.

She’s been lurking you know, its not as _insidious_ as it sounds, she drops in every once in a while, a day or two each month, unbeknownst to them of course, scouts the area, notes the changes and then leaves as she came, invisible.

She’s just invisible, like _literally_ invisible, and she’s not detectable by magical long lost ‘sleeping-beauty’ sisters of old, Or a thousand years of acutely honed sense of instinct and awareness, alike.

Its actually her cloaking spell that gets the credit, its her speciality, barriers.

But the point is she's been following Kol Mikaelson, undetected, for a while now, and he's finally come to a stop, in a nondescript back alley, one of many lining the infamous Bourbon Street of this sultry NOLA scene they've chosen for their fiefdom.

A brunette meal being drained, and _there_ ,

when his senses, even after a thousand years, are slightly hazed by the incoming pleasure, the sinful wrap of silk and honey around his tongue, the warmth of blood as it coats his throat, when his head is floating an inch above his neck in delectation.

She strikes.

A blur, a thump, and _pinned,_

Of course, all _he_ sees, is well, nothing.

Once he is pressed against the wall, and starts to struggle against her, she uses her magic to hold him still, and drops the cloaking spell.

She has always relished that face, the slightly bulging eyes, parted lips and eyebrows crinkled somewhere between disoriented confusion and just startled surprise.

The _astonishment_ in their face, she revels in it, swiping out their feet from underneath and holding the upper hand when they least expect it.

Kol doesn't stray far from that face, she holds his gaze lets him get acquainted with her cornflower blue eyes, and he snarls.

Someone’s in a _tetchy_ mood.

She removes her forearm that was seemingly lodged across his throat, good thing he didn't notice what was actually happening there, and lets the magic keep him captive, takes a step back, and the immobilisation spell functions smoothly.

He's struggles to overcome it, usually the Originals can at least move their head around or wriggle their fingers, but she's no ordinary witch and thats no ordinary spell, it has him standing stone still and Helpless.

“Kol Mikaelson, I’m told, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” she raises her chin and regards him.

There’s that Mikaelson Calculation in his eyes, he wont underestimate her, she's sure.

He himself is underestimated far too often to be hypocritical enough to repeat the same mistake. 

He's drawn his conclusion she can see,

_‘A marginally powerful witch with a death sentence as of this moment.’_

Or some variation of that,

Good, she needs him to believe her a witch, she after all has kept her second face neatly tucked in concealed. The ever-present cloak she dons, impedes any and all beings from detecting her second visage, it's well hidden, A shadow within a shadow.

Either way she allows him enough movement to control his mouth and eyes, he promptly takes use of it.

“Believe me darling, the pleasure will be all mine, _momentarily_.” 

He says with a genial smile, the posture would've been nonchalant if only he had control over his own body. His eyes though sing an entirely different song,

He makes a show of looking around as if expecting someone to swoop in and incapacitate her, as if he's waiting for the right moment to strike.

All an act really, she's _thorough,_ he should know that, she knows he left the ‘Abattoir’ (like she said, pretentious) alone.

A spat with his brother the _‘King’_ , something about his maiden witch love, Davina not being the King’s personal magician, and to treat her with the same respect he extends to his family, which if you ask her, is like two steps away from nonexistent so she honestly has no idea why the younger Mikaelson even tries, but she resists judgement and gets to the point, 

She knows no one was following him and he had stormed out in need for more _pliant_ outlets of frustration AKA the barely breathing slumped body on the side of the alley he was just draining.

So she tells him exactly that,

“Now, we wont be interrupted here, I'm sure, you can drop the ‘I’ve got backup arriving any moment now’ act. I'm here to talk business.”

He regards her now, calculation still evident.

“ _Assertive_ little thing aren’t you? But surely as a business partner of yours I can be spared your name. Also this is a rare occurrence, but I don’t particularly care for this impromptu bondage situation we’ve got going on, so if you could let me down, gently darling, it’ll be much appreciated, and we can proceed right along to our businessy particulars.”

And cue nasty once-over of her person, 

He’s appreciative, she knows.

“Who said anything about being partners, you're role in this business, is well simple, you will deliver a message to your brother, the self-crowned King of New Orleans.”

Oh he's _pissed_ now, she can see.

Not even getting assaulted in a back alley can stray from doing something with almighty Nik.

“Now darling you're mistaken, I’m not the beloved _King’s_ messenger—“

“No you're his court _Jester_ , or so he declared, but I was hoping you'd grasp at an opportunity for a sizeable promotion, as a messenger, now at least people will pay attention to what you actually have to say, instead of searching for a punchline in every sentence.”

Ah there’s that face of surprise again, she really _really_ likes that one, but of course the Original truly barely even reacts, its a faint raising of the left eyebrow, he's still nonchalant enough everywhere else, but his surprise is not lost on her.

That particular conversation where Kol was dubbed the ‘ _Royal Fool of His Majesty’s court_ ‘ was an especially private one, both brothers were having a moment of bonding, deep within the recesses of the Compound,

with sage burning.

He's even more vigilant now, but she wont reveal anymore of her cards.

“Now as I was saying, a message to your brother, if you will, tell him;

On the day of Samhain when the full moon is at its apex, we will arrive at the abattoir, tell him to gather his men close and his family closer, we will arrive bearing a lost token of centuries past belonging to the Mikaelson Name. One of grave importance, Should he choose to neglect my message, tell him regret will eat away at the very marrow of his bones, of that I am sure. After all a chance like this appears only once in a millennium.”

He looked amused, and probably relishing in the idea of a joint slaughter with his siblings, once she arrives at the family compound.

but he's intrigued nonetheless.

He's impressed by her strength but she hasn't left an impression yet.

Well then she's just going to have to impress upon him.

Not giving him a chance to acquiesce on her request, which he's just going to have to do, whether he likes it or not.

“And as for my name, you’ll carry it back in my stead.”

She takes a step forward places her hand an inch away from the skin of his forearm that was held away from his body to her behest, and lets her magic flow,

Her name is carved into his arm, just _Caroline,_

she doesn't have a family name.

Slowly and steadily, every dip and every loop in curving perfection of cursive calligraphy. He barely winces in reaction, but there, there’s her impression,

—Yes she's aware its horribly unimaginative, but she's pragmatic not poetic—

A drop of blood trickles down his arm and lands on the rough concrete, 

Now that drop of blood, she can touch, and discreetly places her feet on top of it, she's barefoot and if he noticed he didn't think much of it, contact with that one drop of blood from his arm is enough for her to drain his ability to heal over her carved name, and there it remains engraved on his forearm the blood ceaselessly flowing, its obvious he's waiting for the wound to close,

Too bad for him, it wont until she says so.

He notices the anomaly and tries to look down at it but he's immobilised, 

looking at her name one last time still gaping and open,

“Be sure to relay my message for me, Thank you.”

She presents him a sunny smile,

He clearly wants to regale her with the gory gruesome tales of every witch, vampire, werewolf and unicorn that has wronged the Mikaelson Family and have endured centuries of regret and retribution in return, but she's taken his ability speak away, so his eyes bulge in protest and just like that,

she's gone,

Invisible, untouchable again.

* * *

Its awfully fanciful he thinks, this _Caroline_ women,

Laughable really,

Struts into _his_ kingdom, attacks his brother and proceeds to demand his attendance in his residence.

How delightfully ambitious,

Veritably on The Night of Samhain, the hailing of the darker quarter of the year, a winter’s plea for survival, the auspicious night the souls of dead loved ones revisit their homes seeking hospitality, such _thespian_ antics, she's surely amused him.

However a lost token belonging to the Mikaelson Family, now he's sure its one banal talisman or another, belonging to Esther or Dahlia or even Freya, that the witch happened upon and believes is of great import to his family,

A hopeful barter perhaps is her motivation, a page of the original grimoire, or mayhap Freya’s assistance in a spell, tedious witchy interference, not his forte if he’s being honest, and emphatically not of his interest either.

But the fact that she held Kol immobile for a slightly extended amount of time is yet to be properly examined, the harvest witches of New Orleans were able to do so, he has a first hand experience of it after all, the woman who dared, died of a thousand cuts, not that anybody would care.

But this latest parvenue loitering about his territory, well she was, at the end of the day, a lone witch with plausibly, a flair for the arts of the _theatrical_ sorts, a drama major, he's sure of it.

but what truly demands his attention is her valiant effort to _dictate_ and predict his emotion, 

It’s— pardon him but—its _adorable._

The intensity with which she predicts his regret, it _tickles_ him, love.

Regret,

such an alienated emotion, second only to love of the non-familial kind.

He's experienced—a scant occurrence at any rate— a pale simulacrum of this sentiment a fistful of times over the course of his years, but, 

He hasn't felt true regret that _“eats away at the very marrow of his bones”_ , since that fateful night one thousand years ago, the impetus happenstance, the true tragedy of the Mikaelson name.

_“The wolves, Nik, I want to see them turn big brother,”_

He silences his mind and his bickering family with a derisive snort,.

“Well fanciful isn't she, no matter, this newest upstart couldn't have arrived at a better time, I had half a mind to turn come next full moon, the recent bout of monotony is dreadfully stifling.”

He pauses for his family’s concurrence on the last statement, 

He doesn't get it, He continues unaffected,

“Well then Kol, you are absolved of your duties as the Court’s Licensed Fool on the eve of Samhain, it looks like our night’s entertainment has already been arranged.”

He swipes at the name still carved on his little brother’s arm, profusely bleeding still, now this— _this_ was somewhat disconcerting, but he wouldn't worry his head about it, he’ll have this arriviste witch sort it out soon enough if Freya fails in her intervention.

He looks at the name one last time, picks up his sketch pad and walks out the room.

“Little miss _Caroline_ should hope she delivers, after all she’ll be hosting a full house and a tough crowd.”

* * *

Its the day before the Night of Samhain, and she looks at the only person she will ever touch with joy and comfort in her heart, she looks at the only person she’s held who she hasn't wrecked so thoroughly their soul is vanquished.

His dark hair is neatly cut and styled in the way young men of his age prefer, and he's wearing a full sleeves maroon knit sweater in accordance to the fall-chilled air, black jeans covers his long lanky legs, she remembers distinctly, this is one of the first sweaters he ever bought, on one of the many shopping sprees they both embarked on in the last year or so, he bought it last winter and the shoulders are already too tight,

She feels this bone deep sense of sorrow spread from her toes up her legs all the way till the tip of her nose, stopping just below her eyes,

Because how on earth can she possibly have eyes filled with anything other than this overwhelming feeling of _belonging_ , let alone sorrow, when she’s gazing at her little pumpkin playing the guitar, sitting there strumming idly.

God she’s so sad, it’s insulting.

When was the last time she gave herself the impression that her life was anything but a garden of milk-sweet Mongolias and dewy lilies, and a hesitant smatterings of poppies, a cobblestoned path lining the borders and meandering away in between the sweet scents of orange blossoms and jasmine oil that permeates the air, and maybe the only weeping part of the whole scenery would've been a weeping willow bending its head down, in atlas’s humility, to lightly caress the crystal blue lake sprawling in the centre of it all.

She’s not delusional, she knows her...condition of existence is— _gutting_ for the soul.

But this, _this_ impending departure of her companion, It’s making her miserable, she’s experiencing the pain with a bird’s eye view, its so hard, its making her stateless.

And it’s not even the perpetual state of slightly agitated, detached melancholy she’s accustomed to in the deepest darkest receded pits of her heart, no,

This one stands out, like a beacon of hurt. Like a sudden splash of crimson blood, clawing its way to the surface from the bottom, spreading and swirling in her pristine azure lake.

Her heart, it doesn't _constrict_ in her chest, like all the great tomes tell her it should when great dialogues of unfettered grief is narrated,

No, instead she can actually feel it expand, expand and knock against the inside of her sternum with every beat, she can feel it trying to expand past her chest and just swell, bigger and bigger in hopes that someway, just somehow it will widen enough to just _engulf_ this human in front of her and keep him there and never, _ever_ let go. To make enough space for him and give him everything he wants and protect and cherish him like the brother she never had, or maybe she did, she cant really remember. 

But she wants it to just expand and take, but all it does is blow up, burst and bleed.

Her little human of course can see her plight viscerally play out in her eyes, he’s even learnt her tells. God, when was the last time someone knew the difference between her

_‘I’m lost in the memories of my past I don’t have’ face_

And her

_‘I’m lost in glimpses of the future I can’t have’ face._

Oh yes, never,

but her perceptive little pumpkin knows, And God it _hurts._

She knows she’s going to loose him, she’s not naive enough to think she’ll be able to have any claim over him or his affection in just 24 hours.

And she wants to be selfish you know, some godforsaken, pitifully repressed, part of her wants to remove his memories and keep him with her, as his only family and protector, but she won’t.

She knows she can’t, she will never put him through the pain she felt 400 years ago when she finally woke up from her sleep. Disoriented, confused, scared and so, _so_ alone.

But after 400 years of a wide blanket of solitude,

Nope, that’s not the word

400 hundred years of unceasing loneliness, yes. 

—She’s dramatic, she gets it, no need to point that out—

She finally, _finally_ found someone she could be close with, in every sense of the word, someone who stayed, someone who didn’t die on her or someone she didn't kill unwittingly, someone who looked at her condition and didn't think, _‘No, you're too risky for me.’_

God, she’d give her life for this floundering guitarist in front of her, a thousand times over, she’d do it with a smile on her face, and he knows, and he accepts her devotion, her loyalty, her companionship, and he offers his own,

When was the last time this happened,

She supposes it was with Bonnaventura Benettini during her Italian escapades in the 1820’s. She was with her for 50 years, watched her grow and age, wrinkle and stutter, watched her bones hollow and creak against one another, watched her spine get softer and the steel in it only strengthen, _her Bonnie._

But she too left,

Yet this little human, she can make him immortal, she knows she can, he can spend eternity with her, and he'd choose to too, he told her himself, but,

He’ll be gone tomorrow, sacrificed to the Mikaelsons.

“Caro, if you frown any harder, you’ll be stuck with a face like that Grinch guy, maybe not as green, but you do look a bit pale,”

He rises from his perch near the french windows the soft light of a nearly full moon flooding the loft, and saunters towards her,

Yes, _saunter_ , because how else will a budding young man his age move.

He sits down right next to her, thighs touching and now her heart constricts, he intertwines their hands and locks their fingers together, her heart stutters,

_God_ , such a trite commonplace act, and for her, a fist in her soul, the sun shines only a bit brighter, and the moon only a tiny bit bigger, how long and by how many she was denied this... privilege, to just hold, to just _connect_.

She falls back on the arm of the settee and he follows suit placing his head just below her chin, their interlocked fingers laid on her stomach, she drops a kiss on the top of his head and she swears she hears the sound of ripping, she's trying to figure out if it was her heart or her soul that made it when,

“You know I wont leave you, yes? No matter what happens tomorrow, I swear it Caro,” 

“Sleep pumpkin, it’s getting late, we’ve got a whole day ahead of us.”

And she thinks, thats all they're going to get, a whole day.

* * *

The moon reaches its apex.

Their heartbeats, It reaches her one at a time, the first beat, then second then third and fourth and then it gathers, fifth, sixth, seventh, and so on, its an unwitting coordination like the rhythmic flapping wings of a migrating pat of flamingoes she watched fly overhead during the first winter she spent in India, pale crimson and rushed,

The steady staccato turns to conjoint trills and runs, each flap turns to one giant albatross,

Their heartbeats, as she enters, it sounds like applause to her ears, her grand reception as they welcome her, her hailing.

One, two, three, four...elven, twelve.......thirty six.......forty two...fifty three......seventy eight and seventy nine…..eighty six…..ninety four, ninety five and….

Ninety Six.

She can sense 96 different magical signatures in the vicinity.

Two witches, Four originals, fifty six vampires, each ranging from eight years old to two hundred and six, and thirty four baby hybrids, 

She knows the newest doppelgänger is still alive and well,had the decency to see through the completion of the ritual and actually die, but was audacious enough to come back to life, resilient kind, these face-sharers. 

Imaginary cabinets in the back of her head are drawn open and pertinent information filed away.

It damn sure is a full house today,

He did gather all his men, and what do you know almost all his family too.

The undead stood tall and proud and together on all three levels of the compound, spilling from the shadows, occupying a vignette around the sprawling courtyard, craning their necks to get a proper glimpse of this daringly stupid or stupidly daring witch, before she's walked to the gallows,

She loves the attention. No surprise there.

These vampires, their anticipation and excitement of a good public execution, especially of a witch, an ode to the good old days of categorical despotism under Marcel, thrummed in the air,

She looks at the gathering and finds them akin to a teeming colony of ants in this anthill, set to launch into orderly scrambling on a moment’s notice.

She thinks, the vampires and hybrids see her this way, a non-Daniel walking into a Lion’s den, pity she couldn't give them more credit than a colony of insects, but she also knows the strength in numbers, she's never been a part of such strength herself, but she doesn't underestimate this groupie castle,

Underestimating is their part of the act.

Plus she’s slightly trypophobic, and looking at a chaotic swarm of scattered ants always gives her a headache.

She walks in wearing virginal white, a short chiffon pleated sundress, barefoot per usual, every sunshine curl placed on her shoulder is located exactly where she wants it, there’s no gravity to her step, light and delicate as a feather against skin, she practically floats in, soft as the flutter of the eye.

And the murmurs start, 

she likes that they're not straying from the script,

“You know, I wasn't asking for another _Bellatrix_ right after Dahlia or anything but I certainly expected more than Tinkerbell here.”

“Dude. She’s a teenager, like practically, blonde Davina 2.0,”

“ _Bro-o_ , look at them legs tho.”

“Well that was massively underwhelming. Somehow I kept imagining pointy hats, Or at least _some_ amount of leather, not a— _maiden....sunflower_.”

and a lone vampire, 

“Why do I get the feeling she’s broken multiple glass ceilings labelled: ‘dumb blonde’, and—I don't know, has had men _choke_ on the broken shards.”

The last one she likes, she lets her aura skim his shoulder like the cold edge of a scythe,

His suspicions are confirmed, he takes a step back.

As expected the Originals present a United Front,

The King standing tall and Majestic, front centre, 

Elijah Mikaelson and Rebekah Mikaelson flanking his right and left respectively. 

Kol, a bleeding splotched dressing on his forearm and looking slightly pale, stands an inch behind Rebekah’s left, the B-list original after all, 

and of course,

The honorary Mikaelson, former King of New Orleans, stands a step behind Klaus in between the reigning King and Rebekah.

The blonde Mikaelson Witch a protective step ahead of the family, beside the suited Nobleman bringing up the right border, 

The Claire Witch a protected step behind Kol with her head raised and shoulders locked holding down the left flank.

She wonders if they realise how much the position they are standing in now, reflects their general stance with each other,

Her feet bring her to a decisive halt seven exact feet from the Supernatural Kardashians.

And would you Look at that, the trumpets blow, the murmurs are silenced with a cymbals’ clash and His Excellency. His Majesty, the King is poised to speak,

“Greetings Witch. _Welcome_ to my humble abode, We’ve—”

“Your brother went through painstaking efforts to bring you back my name, use it.”

Kol’s eyes flash, he doesn't like to be reminded it seems, well he did have to suffer relentless bleeding for two weeks now, neither Freya nor Davina or any other New Orleans witch or warlock for that fact, including the current Regent Vincent Griffith were able to heal the wound, Klaus had even sent a chase party after her to find and drag her to the Compound, so that he may force her to undo her witchy-woo, but she would come and do the needful in her own time, he'd have to learn that soon.

“Now, careful Little Witch, heed your manners, but moreover heed who you speak to, surely you've heard _‘Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.’_ ”

She sees ice boil in his eyes.

“‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon’, well glad to know you're a fellow Potterhead, but here’s the thing _Your Majesty,_ ” she inclines her head.

“I’m in a bit of a time crunch here and honestly have multiple other things on my agenda tonight, so how bout we skip the vague opening threats and get down to business, its the least you can do after placing that bounty on my head for my capture.”

Her hands are primly clasped below her chest.

“In the spirit of full disclosure, little witch—

“Caroline.”

“—You should know, walking in your chances of survival were awfully bleak tonight, but now I might just allow a moment of benevolence and choose to turn you and sire you via compulsion, regardless of your business ventures this evening.” 

A blade is dragged across his face to create a smile.

“Well that’s too bad, you see, You can't turn me into one of your inbred lackeys solely on the blunt principle, that I _cannot_ be turned into a vampire.” Her smile is the curve of a sickle.

“On principle you say, well sweetheart—

“Caroline.”

“—I’ve lived a thousand years, and never in all the numerous confrontations I've had with witches so far, was I unable to turn any particularly disappointing vassal of magic when I wished to do so, on principle as you say, any living being, human, werewolf or witch can be turned into a vampire and you, love—“

“Caroline, please and thank you.”

“—Have sealed your fate and will be turned on frank principle that you have irked me, _Caroline.”_

She’s not sure why she has this sudden feeling of cold liquid mercury run down her spine but she promptly ignores it. 

_Car-o-line._

“I completely agree with you, _Your Majesty_ —“

“Please, call me Klaus.” He inclines his head.

“—all the things you stated are no doubt irrefutable facts, any human, werewolf or witch can be turned into a vampire, I’m not denying that. Yet you cannot turn me into a vampire, simply on the principle that, _I already am one._ ”

She hisses out the last three words with her fangs bared and eyes darkened, veins a braid of black interstices on her flawless milky skin and

_God_ she loves that face, did she tell you that? that slight lip-parting astonishment,

that one second of intense discrepancy between fact-based logical reasoning and the startling incoming information your senses _insist_ is true. Yep. that face, she cherishes it.

Kol had it at the tip of his tongue to state with the certainty of a devout saint’s faith in his hand-held scriptures that she was most definitely a witch when she bound him with her invisible witchy shackles, he swears it Nik.

But she doesn't give them a chance to articulate,

“No your eyes do not deceive you, it’s true, I am a witch,” 

She raises her left hand with all the elegant panache of a danseuse and all the candles, in the room —which was a lot, because of course they’d go with an ominous Southern Gothic vibe for the interiors— ignite and flicker steadily at her command.

Her vampire face still intact, 

“But I'm a vampire, nonetheless.”

There are some silences that can be heard, this is probably one of them 

as for the Mikaelsons,

Freya’s positively bothered, 

Davina’s holding on to Kol’s sleeve, 

Kol feels the first niggling flicker of covetous intrigue flare after the last aftershocks of well, _shock_ recedes, 

Rebekah shifts from her left leg to her right, favouring her older brother’s side, eyes just a tad rounder. 

Marcel, honestly she doesn't notice, honorary wannabe Mikaelsons with delusions of grandeur so unfounded they believe they can control the entire Witch population of the most famous supernatural hotspot in the continent _indefinitely_ , are just so beneath her you know. 

Elijah lightly smooths his suit cuff, lips no longer in a tight line of indifference. 

And Klaus, 

Klaus finally stands as _Predator_ before her, instead of King.

There, now we’re all in our natural habitat, now she may proceed.

Klaus’ is ready to say something, but she’s on a roll here mister, wait for your chance.

Chin raised, shoulders back, spine straight, 

Her voice charred honey, consumes every witch vampire and hybrid in the vicinity 

“I’m the only one of my kind, I'm the _Original Heretic._ ”

Beat.

Klaus inclines his head to the right,

and the air short circuits around her, 

Damn it, she knew it was going to be a tough crowd. 

That teeming colony of ants she talked about, they _scramble,_ and _scatter._

The swarm’s coming at her from all four sides, jumping off the balustrade, materialising from the alcoves, the ones obscured now charging towards the centre of the courtyard, in all their chest-beating battle-men glory, legions of wild greeks, hefting their lances, nocking their arrows, oiled amor sliding in the same ease the blood will flow, their helmets bear the pledge of the Hybrid, their minds pledged to the meretricious promise of immortality, their hearts sing a pledge to the crimson blood they thirst for, and now they thirst for hers, bellowing war cries like a boulder hurled across the air, 

Or at least thats what she imagines, 

They charge into battle at their King’s approbation, a cant of his head is all it took, that’s all she needs to know about the King. She's impressed.

But these undead men and women with malady in their veins and eternal damnation within their gums, not so much. 

_ugh. Rowdies._

Not to mention, she’s not freaking done with her monologue people, Its a _humble request_ , find your damn patience and hold it for God sake.

She waits till the very last moment, when she is only but a blind swipe of the hand away from them, then,

She raises both hands powerfully, bent at the elbows her hands aligned with the level of her head, and gives a deft flick of her wrists away from her face, a dismissive gesture really.

She knows Klaus saw it all happen in slow motion,

A proverbial two storey tidal wave of undiluted, unbridled power reverberates through the room and every vampire and hybrid charging towards her, was thrown back with the force of a snapping spine against the nearest vertical or horizontal surface and were pinned there immobilised, still as the King’s millennium old undead heart. Every inch of the walls and pillars, railing and floor, was now occupied by a motionless soldier, completely at her mercy, stock still and helpless. 

In the silence, the heartbeats quicken and thunder together, there’s her applause again, it takes a lot more effort than she expected to not take a sweeping bow at the moment. She settles for setting down her hands, the paralysed remain motionless,

“It is rude to interrupt a lady,” she admonishes with all the grace of an austere governess. “Now if I could just manage to finish my monologue, I might be inclined enough to let you spin a spiel of your own Klaus, but I go first.” 

Oh she knows, the _audacity_ of her, to _let him_ , do anything, let alone telling him when to speak, god she’d think she has the survival instinct of a gnat if she weren't so shielded, but she _irked_ him apparently, she’s just sticking to character now. 

Now Marcel there, takes, what she thinks he believes is, a menacing step forward,

“You _let my people go_ this instant witch, or so help me—”

Apparently he didn't get the memo that witches as a species are not under his feet anymore or for that fact were never under his feet, as his delusional mind would still have him believe.

but she can begrudgingly respect the righteous vibrating anger he radiates on behalf of his indisposed brethren, but weren't they Klaus’ people to start with.

“Alright Moses, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down—“

but, Of course, he decides to flash forward towards her, probably take her by the throat or something as equally as _touchy_ , she doesn't even let the decision take root in his muscles, before she raises one hand and with an elegant twirl of her wrist fans her fingers close and gives a tug as if to pull on an invisible thread enclosed within her fingers, and he stops mid-step,

He feels it, 

“Now, let me explain in great detail, Vampire, what exactly is happening to you and the rest of _your people_ , that constant tugging sensation you feel in your heart, that is actually, your heart trying to escape your chest at my command,”

She gives an experimental tug, lightly, and every vampire and hybrid alike in the room pales, they feel it too.

“A little more force and it will shoot right out like a cannonball, the last time I did it, the heart of a 986 year old vampire landed thirty feet from his chest, I wonder if the distance covered has something to do with the age.”

The Originals and the witches are positively stumped, they don't feel what the other vampires and hybrids alike are experiencing, But of course they don't show their surprise, stoic and calculating as ever. 

She wont hurt the Originals, you know, its the last thing she would possibly do.

But these bystanders are fair game.

She continues, “Imagine, all 90 vampires and hybrids dead, grey as a corpse, in one second, and I move only a single muscle.” Another taunting tug. “Would you like a demonstration, I think you would.” 

“ _Enough, Caroline_.” 

It’s clear but not too loud, It’s not an order, it’s not an admonishment, and it’s definitely not an entreaty, It’s an overture, the first opening offer across the table.

And she thinks, that she wants to rub her clit tonight, with the sound of his gravel rough voice a velvet curl around her name, whispered in her ear, preferably by those sinfully beautiful, plump lips.

She briskly tramps down whatever godforsaken part of her came up with that thought.

She turns her chin down lightly in acquiescence, fingers fluttering open as if she’s releasing butterflies from her palm.

She regards him, this predator, not King, holds his eyes, shines her own right into them, they acquaint themselves with the fire stoked and burning behind each other’s water-tinted eye.

Upon observing, she finally sees what exactly makes him the focal epicentre of an entire room filled with beings who are predators in their own right, she knew it was not just his immortalitystatus as Original, no even amidst his siblings he’s the apex predator, and it has nothing to do with his Janus-face of Beast and Monster, no even an unsuspecting human who hasn't the faintest clue about witches vampires wolves and vikings would be able to pinpoint Klaus as the Devil amongst demon worshippers, and she sees why.

It’s because he doesn't breathe, 

_No seriously_ , that’s exactly why.

His chest is always still as stone, there is not slight flaring of his nostrils for when air should be inhaled, or contracting of his diaphragm when air should be exhaled, but he is animate and moving, except for his chest, a millennium and more of disuse has rendered his lungs vestigial, he doesn't need air to exist so he simply does not breathe, 

Its not the same for his fellow siblings, they don't breathe as often as humans do or for that fact even properly aged vampires do, they’re intakes of air is much more far and few in between, but its still there, as for the other vampires, hybrids, they are still far too young to break free of such conventions, still conformed to their human state of being, 

Every vampire, witch and hybrid here has a monster of their own, but the meagre act of breathing establishes a nexus between said monster and whatever smidgen of human they’ve been able to salvage, 

but Klaus there stands tall and proclaims, 

'Amongst you beings of Monster and Human, 

I am Monster and Monster.'

That his vehement defiance against anything human within him that he chooses to repudiates every last link, as if to say 

_‘There is already Wolf and Malady within me, there is no place for human.’_

It terrifies her, but she doesn't know if he truly has no human left in him, or if he is just better than the rest at keeping it hidden, for the sake of tonight going well for her pumpkin, she hopes the latter

But terrified or not, the gaze is held unwaveringly, the air doesn't sizzle between them, no it vanishes, and instead they fill the space between them with their aura, hers beats around him as thunder would, his engulfs her as quicksand would.

His chin dips, 

His eyes crinkle in the corner. 

He smiles, She feels the phantom dig of his dimples in the palm of her hand.

_“Now tell me, What can I do for you, sweetheart?”_

She knows what he sees, potential, potential to find an equal worth ruining. 

To find a foe to whom he is not prey, scilicet Mikael, nor predator, but tantamount in power and prowess that he will relish both defeat and victory.

* * *

Now seldom does he smite sword ‘gainst an opponent who oblige him to roll his shoulders in earnest.

Seldom does one such as he, find an opponent that may dare to fathom the palest prospect of mayhap bestowing upon him, the unprecedented title of a loss well deserved.

Such feats are far too few, to be spurned in blithe indifference. 

So Here he castles his rook and king and awaits your move, Heretic.

“I come bearing gifts.” She chooses to answer instead,

His mind made, that this was certainly far more entertaining than howling at the moon, as he previously planned to do, he indulges,

himself or her he can't tell.

“Now we shall address that momentarily, but I must ask you to release my men, I'm afraid this scene doesn't do for a diplomatic atmosphere.” Gesturing in the general direction of his immobilised army, which just so happened to be everywhere.

“Very well.” She raises and flicks her wrist in that same dismissive manner, it amused him greatly.

The vampires and his Hybrids, who were previously paralysed, were at once free to move, and they all unanimously chose to give this pleasantly surprising woman a wide, wide berth.

* * *

The King takes graceful steps, measured and lithe, towards her, probably would try and greet her bent over her hand, a moist kiss on her knuckles or something equally as histrionic,

but He comes up short,  seeing that

He walks head first into an invisible barrier that keeps him an exact three feet away from her.

—now the radius of the barrier she can manipulate to her wish, sometimes its an inch away from her skin congruent with the planes of her body, sometimes she’s a hermit in a cave with a 15 feet radial barrier, between herself and reality — 

He comports himself, 

“Now love, what purpose, pray tell does this,” he knocks his knuckles against the smooth glass-like hardness of the barrier “attempt to serve?” 

She herself places a light hand on the barrier from her side, “Consider it a perfunctory attempt at ‘Better Safe than Sorry’. A last line of defence, if you will.”

There's a contemplative hum, and he chooses to be amiable enough about it, 

“I suppose, it would be ill-advised to lower your guard in a Lion’s den of iniquity.” 

She’s sure she made some allegoric comparison between lions and ants somewhere, but she’s benevolent enough to neglect it presently.

She looks past Klaus, her eyes sweeps over the Mikaelson Ensemble before her, and lands on Kol.

“Oh, _I almost forgot_ , Kol, if you don't mind, I think it’s absolutely tasteless, that you have the name of one woman carved into your arm when you have another’s carved in your heart, so I truly apologise. And—if it’s okay with you I’d like to rectify my extremely literal take ‘on leaving a lasting impression’.” 

Her voice is sincere, if not a bit sheepish about her lack of creativity, as she turns to address the younger brother, she meant it when she said she did not wish to hurt him whatsoever, its unsurprising when both Klaus and Kol immediately turn suspicious, she doesn't blame them, three minutes ago she was trying to break the record for most vampires massacred in under one second, but she eases her posture and softly extends her hand in a show of affability,

Klaus gives an imperceptible nod to Kol, Kol wants to tell him that he doesn't _need_ your permission, brother, but he approaches her all the same, stands next to Klaus, clearly doesn't want to make a show of smashing his nose into the transparent wall like his sibling, 

And he thought he was the Court Clown Nik. Running into walls, interrupted every three seconds in his haranguing, having his entire ‘ _army_ ’ blasted to bloody palsy in a second, that sort of thing was his gig. Wasn’t it?

She takes the remaining step forward, until she’s close enough for him to just raise his hand and wrap his fist around your throat and watch you _sputter,_ darling. He’ll do it once she’s healed him,

He hasn't forgiven you of your little stunt yet wi—Heretic.

She places her hand an inch away from the wound, a parallel to how she inflicted it in the first place and gives back the magic she siphoned out of him, that kept him from healing in that one particular spot, 

She admits, manipulating the flow of magic is not easy, most witches have just as much as control over the flow of magic as they have on the day’s weather, instead they control the strength, direction, intent and target of their magic, but the fluidity she exercises, its unlike any other, not even the Mikaelson witch could begin to phantom the degree of control she executes over each and every subtle nuance of both siphoned and inherent magic.

But this control she has over her mojo, its the biggest freaking ironic _fuck you_ from the universe, its not even funny, if she could just exercise half a single percent of the control she has on flowing magic on static magic, God she doesn't even want to broach that territory of what-ifs, its not Tuesday, hours and hours of pricking self-loathing and disappointment is not on her agenda tonight.

The wound heals over completely, the skin stitching itself back together like one of those reverse-play videos on the internet, and she’s going to take a step back when, Kol’s hand flash out towards her throat only to be stopped an inch away from her skin as his knuckles slam harshly against the smooth ward,

For God sake. 

“ _Seriously?_ Look, I said I'm sorry,” 

—also, I don't like being on this side of the barrier anymore than you do outside it, so shove it. She wants to add but thats way too many cards being revealed at the same time so she settles for—

“I get it, your mad, bleeding out non-stop, like a punctured carotid for the last two weeks should've been positively Nightmarish, but I needed you guys to actually listen to my message and well, _not_ stand me up, speaking of which, I gotta say this is one hell off a turn over” she gestures at the groupie troops. She honestly thought the spectator count would be far lesser.

“But I digress, so for the fifth and the last time tonight, can we please, for the _love of God,_ proceed with today’s scheduled agenda, All of that—” her hand circles the space behind her, “ —was a completely avoidable display of power that nobody asked for. I’ve come here—“

“‘— _‘Bearing a lost token of centuries past belonging to the Mikaelson_ _Name.’_ We’re sufficiently aware, but this token of yours will keep, on the other hand, my curiosity sweetheart, is rather insistent, what I find most riveting, is your duality, you’re a Hybrid, much like myself, only I found a better deal with the more competent two of the three species, belonging to the supernatural trinity, sharing my person. But you love, are a— _Heretic_. Now where exactly does that stem from?”

“Your Family Witch doesn't seem to agree with your pecking order of our species.” She casts a glance at Freya. Yep, she disagrees, it’s in that indifferent, unresponsive set of her mouth. 

“But hey your entitled to your opinions, I mean, I don’t know which part of ‘watch me slaughter a hundred vampires with a flick of my wrist’ was lost on you to blatantly ignore the exact hierarchy of our species, but yes, I am a hybrid, but I thought it was carelessly ambiguous to leave it at that. _Hybrid?_ Hybrid of what?—”

A Blazing Gloriole and the Dark Side of the Moon, his mind propounds to his artist.

“—And honestly Witch-Pire was just another degree of gaudy I did not want in my life, so I took the first name that was thrown at me all the way back in 1546 when I was more or less, lets go with the word, _‘born’_ and here we are, The Original Heretic.” 

He knows that the Heretic revealed her age, only because she desired to do so, he can tell, every germane facet revealed inch by inch, by this bewitching woman is measured and appraised to be just enough, but not yet.

At any rate she’s half his age, he can bloody work with that—

“ _Heretic_ you say? well if this is what awaits us in the Sixth Circle of Hell, I decree we convert to the good side brothers, so far the preview has been largely uninspiring.” 

Rebekah who chooses this opportune moment to intone her _mightily_ sought views, that slides down the slope of her upturned nose, loftily regards Miss Caroline, hips cocked and arms bound over her chest. 

_Rebekah,_ sister dearest, come now, he knows you are anything but uninspired, 

She does not feel threatened, no, his sister has more finesse than that, 

rather, Rebekah is impressed, thoroughly impressed. 

“First off, you _do_ understand that my title, the Heretic, has absolutely nothing to do with the cardinal sin of heresy itself, and second, What awaits you in the Sixth Circle of Hell, if you take Dante’s word for it, is being eternally barbecued in burning tombs of fire, so _yes_ , I will suggest you defect to the other side, I don't see burnt blonde doing much for your complexion.”

Ah, so not one to roll on her back and expose her belly, this Heretic.

“Curb your tongue little witch, a singular glass wall between us will do very little for you when Freya eventually neuters it, I look forward to seeing your spine then— Literally.” 

The red on the Original’s lips makes the smile she gives look like a slit throat.

“Your confidence in your sister’s abilities is charming, but you should know that both Freya and Davina have been trying to give me migraines and snapped necks for the better part of the last half an hour, ever since I had your flunkeys stuck to the walls.”She says pleasantly 

“ _Actually_ thats true, Aneurysms the strength of which could bring an Original to their knees,” Davina readilyconfirms her statement and of course the brunette witch doesn't pass up the chance to vaguely slight Klaus with the reminder of her power. 

“How are you resisting it?” she plows on, 

“Oh I'm not resisting your magic, I'm actually using it to strengthen my ward, its much more economical that way.” 

“You’re— _channeling_ our magic? You can’t do that, not without our ready consent, you can’t.” 

“I agree, Its impossible, or else every other witch in the world would channel another at random, boost their powers indefinitely, magic doesn't function as you say.” Freya asserts, finally her carefully blank face morphing to that of vigilant distrust.

“It’s _not_ channeling, God knows I have enough magic of my own to go around to not do that, no I'm actually remoulding your magic so that it follows the point of my index finger instead of yours.” 

* * *

Surely this was a joke, by all the God’s he hasn't a wit of credence for, 

Surely this was a bloody _blague_ against his existence, it hasn't been a paltry decade since he’s become one with his wolf, since he’s become beast that bested both the Sun and Moon, 

Yet, here he has a procession of witches, waiting in line, to arrive on a whim, and try their hand at thwarting The Immortal Hybrid, 

Had he not _just_ been subjected to His mother, with all her piteous delusions of redemption far more harrowing than even Elijah’s insistence on the subject,

Finn and his impressive expertise in self-flagellation, of course, fumbling along. 

Self-deceivingly, Esther believed that, All it took to undo the millennium worth grievances of his soul, was a re-incarnation in a weakened human body, that enfeebled his ability to pursue his more— _indelicate_ passions in life. 

That a soul-transplant was the miracle cure to the millennium of death, debauchery and destruction he has adorned the world with. 

However she veritably forgot, for that to work he needs to _have_ a bloody soul to begin with, Mother.

No matter she was flensed as the cadaver, she ought to have been after a thousand years of interfering her obtrusive lead-laden hands.

Three years later, Another scheme nursing fallacies of his utter vanquishment surfaced, the witch that arose with it was conveniently enough another family member of his, 

He oft ponders whether whatever forces believe themselves to be authors of men lesser than him, proactively _choose_ to find newer and twisted ways to help him sharpen the craft of homicide he has dabbled in once or twice. 

Nevertheless, this newest antagonist to his villainy just so happened to be a long lost Aunt. Dahlia was her name, this women related to him, from ages bygone, Sought to link herself to him and his siblings so that she may put them in a slumber spanning centuries, 

and here mate, you may ask the appropriate question, for what possible good reason—

Of course, so that the bloody harridan could ensure she remained immortal even as a witch,

He agrees, such unsparingly _plebeian_ motivations. 

She too was eliminated, with the help of a newly found Mikaelson, he doesn't fuss too much about Freya’s addition, she’s good enough female company for Rebekah. 

And seeing Elijah continually knocked off the privileged Pedestal of ‘Eldest Mikaelson’ is always cathartic, regardless, a remarkably powerful witch, within his family, at his steady disposal was nothing to be spurned. 

And now here they were, not six moons have seen completion, and the Furies have decided to cross his string with yet another magician, 

A Sunshine women this time seems to be their weapon of choice to combat the ever present threat of smothering tedium that stalks every immortal such as he, 

A visage so young and exquisite as the first bloom of spring, yet her eyes speak of experience and crude ore turned gold Wisdom,

A Women of Royal Caliber, 

But he will have no Queen, King or commoner, believe insubordination of his authority to be a pardonable offence, 

This women of such exploitable potential to be his _Equal,_

Your power, sweetheart, it pierces his skin and prickles his veins, and he finds himself wishing it invades his blood, and the phantom shadow as it would spread through him, he’s sure he will find it addicting. 

Such was the power emanating from this glorious blonde. 

Should she assign herself, his enemy, he may not sought to destroy her with his customary vanquishing ways, of absolute extinction, obliterate any trace of her existence, thorough erasure if you will,

No, in it’s stead, he may just aim to swallow her whole, consume her and hoard her within him, to carry forward through the centuries and savour her defeat, rather his victory, 

She will be no spoil of war, No, nothing so boorish should befall such radiance, 

She will be a shrine of all his Victories. 

Yet, He cannot help but iterate, for he still firmly believes, 

_‘Young, old, dead or alive, Witches are a pain in the arse.’_

He stands by his word, 

Emphatically so, seeing that this women is all four.

So now he moves his castled rook forward, Heretic.

* * *

She knows Klaus’ spidey sense for imminent threats is on overdrive, its not in the stiffening of his shoulder orthe tensing of his jaw, no, its actually in the imperceptible step forward he takes, not in offence, but to put his family behind his back in defence,

After a thousand years of only being either, Prey to Mikael or Predator to the rest, with no in between, the Hybrid finally finds a place where he is Ruler, (and predator only when he chooses to be) a place where nothing as primordial as a pre-established food chain sets the lay of the land, but he does. 

So she can understand his vigilance, attempts to soothe it, 

she doesn't think she accomplished to do so, but she has no intention to cushion their landing when she inevitably pulls the floor out from beneath their feet.

“To summarise, You are a hybrid such as myself, a witch with frankly inhumane power seeing that you are anything but human and remarkable abilities which apparently include controlling the powers of other witches, a magical being who’s kind I've never encountered before, or even heard the faintest whispers of in all my thousand years

—she really likes that he’s asserting his age, now that he knows her to be “younger”—

And as of now, literally untouchable. Did I leave anything out?”

“Um—Nope.”

“Well then love, Now you will proceed to give me three good reasons as to why I shouldn't readily perceive you as a threat in dire need of _total_ elimination.”

“First off, ‘ _to summarise’_ , I am your equal, no need to use so many words to say that.”

He has the decency to not deny it but also enough pride to not accept it, instead he opts to send a condescending and heavily amused smirk her way.

Well she’ll wipe that face off soon enough.

“Second _,_ I like that your thorough enough to ask for three good reasons instead of one, but unfortunately, the fact that, I’m a genial guest _with_ _gifts_ and who was also polite enough to drop in with a prior notice, is the only reason I can give you as of now.”

“Well then you can understand how that doesn’t count for much, especially when history repeatedly warns us of Greeks bearing Gifts” 

“Oh sorry, did I say gifts? I meant _gift_. Just one, that all of you are going to have to share.”

“And what exactly do you expect in return, for this _gift_ of yours.”

She fixes him with a mildly incredulous stare. 

“It’s a _gift_.” She enunciates carefully. “You don’t expect something in return when you’re giving a gift, sure a thank you card would be nice, but the fundamental basics of a gift states that I give and you take.” 

“You must think me a bloody fool love, if you expect me to believe that.”He says with all the unimpressed-ness of a man slighted with a backhanded compliment.

“Now why would I call you my equal if I thought you were an idiot—“

“So you mean to say you’ve come here with the sole intentions of presenting us with a gift, and expect to walk out empty handed.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”She adds after a thought, “Hopefully of the same book.” 

“Well sweetheart, experience has thought me if the barter doesn’t involve a give and take on both sides, it’s usually because the party solely giving has already gotten what they want, or intend to take what they want without the consent of the other. Now my _genial guest_ , please do be honest, which one is it?”

“Not everything is a give and take Klaus, My life is proof enough to completely destroy any such claim.”

“So I happen to stand before a benevolent philanthropist who believes giving without expectations is a sustainable way of life.”It’s his chance to direct a mildly incredulous stare.

“No you happen to stand before a Heretic who takes and takes and then takes some more.” She answers coolly. 

And God Seriously? 

She is slightly troubled by how freaking pleased he is with her answer. He looks like a teenager who just saw real life boobs for the first time. It’s disconcerting.

“Well then Heretic—

“Caroline.” 

She likes to be called by her name goddamnit

“ _Caroline,_ apologies,” 

She regrets that knee jerk correction now.

“If that’s the case, then why break trend and elect such a conflicting route, why give now instead of _take?”_

Is it just her or was that supposed to have some sexual energy in it, because his eyes are positively smouldering, and, _ugh_. There's a blue shade she won't ever forget.

“Well I figured a major change in lifestyle would be a good way to combat the package deal that is immortality + steady boredom.”

“And you thought it wise to choose _my Kingdom_

—So. Fucking. _Pretentious._ — 

to test out that theory.” 

“Well I’m sure there’s a saying called, Go big or Go home.”

“Sweetheart, There also happens to be a saying called, ‘Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity.’” 

“Oh this is not bravery, this is confidence, confidence in both my abilities and my gift.”

She knows her smile would charm the boxers off a lesser man. 

“These abilities of yours darling, do tell, surely a glass wall and a particular spirit in bondage is not where it ends.” 

Kol suddenly decides to insert himself in the conversation a look of such intrigue and dare she say greed on his face, Oh she’s known quite a few witches turned vampires who have sent her being the same covetous look, she’s sorry to say that it’s a condition your born with, not something you can just obtain through sheer force of will and actions.

“Revealing all my powers to you, see now _that_ would be stupidity, So how bout I just reveal what I came here to give and we’ll call it day.” 

Understanding that she isn't going to give them an inch or a mile,

“Very well then, go ahead love, You’ve built yourself up far too tall to afford to fall short now.” 

“Finally she bloody gets on with it, listening to her drivel without end has been such an _expensive_ waste of my time, I intend to make you pay in kind witch if we are anything less than _thoroughly impressed._ ” 

Rebekah haughtily cocks her hip with a hand on it, all she needs to do is check her nails for chipping and she’ll be the picture of “Miss head bitch who’s too cool for school but she’s magnanimous enough to grace you with her _fountain-of-youth_ presence every once in a while.”

Another eternal adolescent just like her. It’s odd thinking like that, relating herself to another, it rarely does happen it takes her by surprise when it does.

She doesn't bother soothing her with an answer, instead turns around and takes exactly eight steps away from the family, 

The first step, the air thins around her, her lungs detect a minor difficulty in breathing but she brushes it away, just as she brushed away the matted hair of her little pumpkin the first time he came down with a stomach bug.

The second step her ribs, her sternum and her spine constrict over her lungs painfully, boxing it in, the same way she felt when her little pumpkin woke up so scared by a motorbike that backfired loud enough for it to be gunshots, just below their loft, and decided hugging the air (along with centuries ofloneliness and the idea that she will never truly connect with another) out of her was his idea of a safe haven.

The third, fourth and fifth step she hastens, the same way her pumpkin seemed to hurry the last few steps towards her as if he just cant _wait_ to hold her, and smashes into her body with _so_ much love and trust and just _connection,_ every time he sees her after a long day. She decides its her heart ripping, her soul is still intact.

The sixth step her head feels light and she might think she’d faint if she weren't a half-vampire, she remembers the fateful day not even a full year ago she felt the same way out of sheer bone-deep exhaustion, ironically enough it was also the first day in her entire four hundred years of life, she saw _hope_ for the glimpses of the future, she may never have, and _peace_ with the memories of her past, she doesn't have. She remembers waking up with her head on her pumpkin’s lap.

The seventh step she begins to falter and now she has to choose, control her emotions or control her powers both of which are running amok reflecting her inner chaos, she chooses emotions, she can’t, she won’t let them smell the salt of her tears in the air, the opposite of what she chooses when she’s alone with her pumpkin, because he doesn't make her choose at all, welcomes her as the freaking mess she is. Unbridled power and naked, _naked_ weakness, wholeheartedly.

There’s a collective low intake of breath in the room, she knows because she momentarily lifts the tight lid she places on her abilities as a Heretic, knows her power has risen as thick tendrils of magic from her and spread out all over the room, acquainting itself with the 96 different feasts it can have if she allows it, she knows her power sought to engrave itself in each magical creature in the room, carve her _existence_ into their marrow, she knows it pricks at the corners of their eyes for passage and pours into their head, filling them, owning them. It’s forcing its way into their bodies from beneath their nails, each pore on their skin has widened just a tiny bit to allows this sudden tremor of power to inhale them. She knows a few more minutes and they’ll get addicted, some already are judging by how some of the younger vampires and hybrids are subtly gravitating towards her.

On the eight step she turns around, and she’s lost all trace of smirk and snark, she knows she's the picture of solemn sobriety, 

Klaus’ eyes are blown, Rebekah is swaying on her feet and she doesn't even know it. 

Elijah the steadfast column of solidarity and support, the immovable pillar who holds the sky above his siblings’ head from crashing down and the ground beneath their feet from giving out, stands taller, firm and steady, spine straight as her own.

Kol’s eyes are glistening from breaking the surface of the wave of energy that just crested over his head. 

She really hopes she doesn't spend the rest of her life hating herself for doing this pumpkin, she cant go back to doing that. 

And she doesn't know she mumbled this out aloud by mistake, she honestly couldn't care less.

Her eyes finally meet Klaus’. 

One final intake of breath, 

And as she exhales the cloaking spell that has been hiding the reason she realised she’d only been existing so far, drops.

And there,

Her bringer of salvation is no longer hidden, and she knows the entire room can hear now an added heartbeat, but he’s still concealed behind her back, so there she does what she’s always done, she steps aside.

The originals are consumed by a wave that hits harder than anything her magic could possibly hope to do, its not even a wave, It’s a Tsunami.

And Rebekah’s knees buckle and hit the floor. 

Elijah, the _immovable_ Pillar of unwavering strength, the steadfast Fortress of Stability, takes a step back and _another_ , and caves into himself.

Kol’s eyes are no longer glistening, they are leaking.

And Klaus, Oh God, Klaus, here she accomplishes something she never thought possible, 

Here she makes Klaus, with all the human desperation of a man drowning, Suck in a dying breath to just _survive_ the moment, and for the first time in a long time, chest heaving with the weight of centuries, he _needs_ to breathe. Oh, how his lungs flounder with the unfamiliarity of it.

She’s not sure if it’s Elijah, Kol or Rebekah or maybe even Klaus, but one single whisper seals her ruination with the weight of the world, that just shifted, on her shoulder.

_“H-Henrik?”_

Haven't you been paying attention, It’s the night of Samhain, the souls of dead loved ones come knocking for a visit big brother.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you worry, I know I left it at such a cliffhanger I deserve to be persecuted, but the next chapter is a continuation of this, its a MULTICHAP. yes it's a multichap, and the next chapter is another prompt I was able to incorporate in the strory.  
> CHAPTERS WILL BE UPDATED THROUGHOUT THE EVENT.  
> From 15th October- 15th November  
> Don't worry I do not intend to keep you guys waiting for long.  
> I pinky promise.
> 
> LOVE  
> xx  
> Srishti.


	2. Dear Departed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WORK IS FOR THE KLAROLINE FALL BINGO EVENT
> 
> Prompt: "Vampires do NOT sparkle." 
> 
> Ok, disclaimer: I’m taking major, major liberties with the basic supernatural structure of the universe JP has created, I’ve bent a few rules, broken many of em and made many more, now none of these new rules or ‘revised framework’ of the world I’ve created are far too unrealistic or improbable (Like, IDK, a certain magical unicorn zombiefied-sperm baby out of an Australian werewolf joke-of-a-trope, or the redemption story arc of a thousand year old temperamental psychopathic man-child with daddy issues, but apparently c’est la vie.) these rules are perfectly consistent with each other, just somewhat inconsistent with the TVD-verse but hey that’s the entirety of TO so who’s counting anyway?

* * *

Her eyes finally meet Klaus’. 

One final intake of breath, 

And as she exhales the cloaking spell that has been hiding the reason she realised she’d only been existing so far, drops.

Her salvation is no longer hidden, and she knows the entire room can hear now an added heartbeat, but he’s still concealed behind her back, so there she does what she’s always done, she steps aside.

It’s a wave that hits harder than anything her magic could possibly hope to do, its not even a wave, It’s a Tsunami.

And Rebekah’s knees buckle and hit the floor. 

Elijah, the immovable Pillar of unwavering strength, the steadfast Fortress of Stability, takes a step back and another, and caves into himself.

Kol’s eyes are no longer glistening, they are leaking.

And Klaus, Oh God, Klaus, here she accomplishes something she never thought possible, 

Here she makes Klaus’, with all the human desperation of a man drowning, Suck in a dying breath to _survive_ the moment, and for the first time in a long time, chest heaving with the weight of centuries, he _needs_ to breathe. Oh, how his lungs flounder with the unfamiliarity of it.

She’s not sure if it’s Elijah, Kol or Rebekah or maybe even Klaus, but one single whisper seals her ruination with the weight of the world, that just shifted, on her shoulder.

_“H-Henrik.”_

Haven't you been paying attention, It’s the night of Samhain, the souls of dead loved ones come knocking for a visit big brother. 

* * *

She doesn't think its odd that throughout the evening Elijah chooses to stay above the entire conversation, couldn't even be bothered to breathe a singular huff in her direction, 

She wasn't actively seeking to harm his family in anyway, her intentions and actions were always suspect yes, just not an outright battlecry.

And since conscious and relentless aggression against his family was largely not present, he chose to give her the entire stage to share with his younger brother, 

Let the children play and get it out of their system, he’ll yank them by the collars when they start eating the dirt.

He hasn't deigned to speak with her yet. No sight of a few tastefully threaded words  directed her way,  intended to level the recipient to a height beneath his nose.

But now, he’s the first to recover, and the silence he held so far, he makes up for it.

“ _Any_ living or undead being within these walls who is not a Mikaelson by blood, _Leave_. This instant. No straggler would dare to live the morrow’s sunrise, of that I give you my word.” 

His rich voice increased to levels that shouldn’t dare come out from a man such as he, its unseemly,

He commands every breathing being within these walls, voice booming with such force she would've thought it mass-compulsion, the way every vampire and hybrid flashed out of the room, without a single look tossed back, a prey’s instinct on seeing the Elder Mikaelson use his voice with such power to assert his will when usually his presence alone is enough to do that. 

And if the visceral reaction they just saw play out before their eyes to Pumpkin’s arrival failed to tell them how dire the situation truly is, then Elijah’s ungodly bellow sure did and they bolted knowing this was no less than a death promise that hinged on one tiny second of hesitance. 

Out of the corner of the eye, she saw Marcel take the first step to flash, and out shoots Klaus's hand and holds him back by the elbow, she can see his hand shooting out was not expected by either, Klaus’ barely registers what he’s doing,

— how could he, with Henrik standing right there, her little Pumpkin’s always the centre of attention,—

And ironically enough the gesture is instinctual, 

It took the protege a whole second to understand the implications of the hand that holds his elbow, another to accept the implications,

And then he bows his head, bo ws his head with such intensity, such _weight_ , you wouldn't know if he’s bowing his head for a crown or a guillotine.

And she thinks, No. Klaus wouldn’t have paid the price she paid to be the only being to so much as skim the edge of true Immortality. He would never, he couldn't afford to, at least as long as he'd never sell his family he can’t afford it.

So he’ll stick to Grade A quality Immortality, one measured by White Oak stakes and daggers, And forgo the immeasurable one she’s inhabited by.

Davina is not given the same _privilege_ as Marcel, ushered out the room by another vampire, she notes that its the one that didn't stick to the script while underestimating her. Davina calls him Josh. She’ll remember him.

And now, here they were, the condensed, heavily filtered form of the Original Mikaelson Clan, they were missing three members, namely Mikael, Esther and Finn, clearly their absence isn't missed in the slightest, she contemplates for a second the eternal ruination this Family has suffered and wrought equally, how much _damage_ has befallen this family by their own hand, better yet their own blood, and to stand by and watch Henrik integrate himself into it, 

God, tell her she didn't walk her Pumpkin to the gallows, where he will be turned into both executioner and executed all at once.

Tell her she can just pick up Henrik and flash out of here as the other Vampires did.

One can only thoroughly deny the last one, the previous rhetoric, highly hesitant.

But of course it’s her Pumpkin’s choice and of course she will always accept it, unconditional love does come with such pre-requisites.

But she knows she’s going to loose you Pumpkin, _she knows_ , she saw you try and give her hope yesterday, to make her believe things didn't just shift on an axis too steep that everything we built will slide down the slope and fall into the deepest darkest pits of the Void she fished you out from. 

Don't be so merciless to her Henrik, don't give her hope, she hates it, she _fears_ it, you are going to leave, and she was a fool to think the last four years could dare compete with your blood, your family.

Oh she knows your not cruel enough to abandon her, God No, you wont forsake her, instead you’ll slowly and steadily forget her, let go of her,

And its worse, but she wont tell you that.

She knows how this will play out, today she’ll go back to the loft while you spend the night with your family, today you’ll sleep here probably bundled up in Rebekah’s arms and tomorrow wake up to Kol’s cooking, while she’ll return home— its no longer home—to the loft alone, you wont be there to rest your head on her chest as you sleep, as you let her just _hold_ you in your most vulnerable. 

Did she ever tell you, you have an upturned furrow between your eyebrows when you sleep deeply, its like even your forehead is smiling with peace.

She never has told you how much, _God_ , just how much that nightly ritual of you being in her arms means to her,

just how much she's come to depend on the intimacy you’ve so freely given her, 

And to think that she won’t have it today, that she’ll lie on that bed alone.

She’s all of a sudden so scared of the bed, the bed is far too big now and bottomless, 

She knows she’ll do anything but sleep tonight, she’ll be too busy drowning in the bed that somehow without Henrik is the point where the ocean and the sky meets, from afar the point, it looks like the limitless Horizon, stretching and stretching beyond reach, beyond approach, filled with promises of hope and new beginnings, asking you, begging you to chase it, but now that she’s here, now that she’s ran her course chasing greedily, its no Horizon, its no beginning, its the end of the line. It’s no boundary that stops you, its just nothing continues to live beyond this line. She’ll cross it and go back to existing.

Henrik, stop looking at her like _that_ , from the corner of your eye, stop, _don't give her hope._

She’ll go back to the loft alone and lay in bed alone today and that’s not even the worst part,

The worst part comes the next morning, the realisation that the next day will be the same, and then the next and next and so on, 

It’s going to _raze_ her Henrik, so at least have the decency to not deny her the truth.

Sure you will have her drop in for a few visits, you’ll come and see her yourself once in a while, we can go to the park and people-watch like we used to do before, or you can drop by for guitar lessons, but she will never be family, nothing can change that, 

This, This thousand year old tribe of ruined, _broken_ , constantly not-dying men and woman are your family, they’ll always be there with you, maybe not for you, but their permanence can be counted on. She’s not family she understands that, she’s never had family. 

She thinks she’ll hate you for this Henrik, for making her love you so unconditionally so wholly, just as you did her, you loved her unconditionally, but not unquestioningly, not blindly, you knew her, every part of her, the ugly, _ugly_ parts that decimated entire villages in spite and anger against the world, the pathetic parts that fear every moment your hand is not encased within hers, the lonely parts that will probably in the quietest hour of the night beg the universe to swallow her up whole and put her in the Void she fetched you from. The immature and dangerously _desperate_ parts that wants to kill your entire family just to keep you with her, and yet you chose to love her. You know _everything,_ and yet here you are.

She’s found out that she can’t hurt you, and she won't hate you, she won’t, so she’ll hate herself a little more to compensate, 

Because, because how could she possibly hate _you_ Henrik, you who gave her the one thing she cried and screamed and _begged_ for with the world, the one thing she so desperately groped blindly for in the darkest places of humanity and the brightest burning spots of evil, all these years,

Actually you didn't give her something, you gave her everything she thought she will always be denied, by not giving the one thing she always takes,

You didn't give her your soul. 

And how could she possibly hate you for that, she can’t Henrik.

Her precious little pumpkin. 

_“Stórbræðu, systir*—”_

(*big brothers, sister)

At the first sound of Henrik’s voice Kol’s knees buckle and join Rebekah’s on the floor.

Henrik pauses in his meticulously prepared speech that took over three months to perfect, 

He tries to start again, and flounders.

He can’t stand to watch the tears in his siblings eyes, don’t worry Henrik she won’t cry in front of you, she’ll save you that pain.

And Klaus, so _so_ scared, 

Klaus with a millennium of self loathing and fear of _connection,_ pushing people away only to turn around and indignantly cry ‘ _you_ abandoned _me.’_ with so much self-made loneliness that may just equal hers, who has everything she ever longed for but still ended up as broken as her, chooses this moment to flash forward towards Henrik, Hybrid face barred and hand stretched to choke.

Now she’ll be having none of that, 

Flashing right in front of Henrik before Klaus even gets there, she has him slammed into her still-present barrier so hard, he’s thrown back the few feet he intended to cross, he doesn't loose his balance, lands steady on his foot, but he is boiling. So Livid. 

Such fury on his face, but there’s far more fear behind it, and wasn't that a little too familiar.

“Don’t you _dare_ think of doing something I will make you regret the instant you do it. If your intention was to grab him by the throat, shake him once or twice like a rag doll, see if he was truly real, actually there in the flesh, let me save you the efforts, he is very much real.”

He snarls so fiercely the words come out bleeding, cut by his fangs.

“ _Little Heretic_ , I will give you a death that will last _centuries_ for this little stunt—”

Odd she thought she already had that as a half-Vampire.

“Let me tell _you_ something, this—” she points at Henrik. “is real. _This is Henrik_ —”His breath stutters again, “and it’s unbelievable yes, but if you just gave him thirteen minutes to explain, it will all make sense, I promise, just, I told you if you neglected my message, you'll feel regret, regret the kind you have never felt before—“

“The kind that will ‘ _eat away at the marrow of my bones’_ ” 

“Yes, exactly, for four years, Henrik has been waiting desperately, to see his family, do not, and I mean it, _do not_ deny him this. As much as you have every reason not to believe me or even him, not to believe anything I say or even you see, you need to listen to him.”

“Heretic, This pantomime you have constructed, it will be your _perdition_ of that you have my word. And death, Death will only come as respite, _mercy_ for the Hell I will create just for you.”

“But listen Nik, This is not an act, big brother. _Please_ , just let us explain.” Henrik peaks from behind her to entreat with earnest.

Oh and Look at the way he stumbles back, a step and a half, at Henrik’s voice.

He points a menacing, _menacing_ finger at Henrik,

“ _You_ will not speak, _you_ who dares to masquerade as my very _very_ dead brother, buried and consecrated before my own eyes at a time since when _aeons_ have past, you who dares to wear a face that has been buried beneath cities and kingdoms fallen through bygone ages, you dare speak another word and I will see you _vanquished_.” 

“But, it’s true Nik, you did see me die. Wolf-men as wolves gave me death, I _did_ die brother, but I never passed over. I watched you all loose tears in my name, mourn my absence, I watched mother create a vampire’s soul in you, in all of you, I watched you battle with the blood thirst, I watched our clan-men shun you, I watched you become fire in the sun and be peeled by vervásaik* with your touch, and I hated that I was fruitless to help you, I felt wretched that my death began everything that happened later to our family, and I thought that is my curse, to watch my family suffer through their immortal malady of blood thirst for however long you will live, and I stay dead, That I’d be in clan with your sorrows but never in your struggles, but I was wrong.”

(*vervain)

Henrik often translated the words from his native tongue in a very literal manner, what he says usually makes sense, but when his attempts at translation pretty much look like he’s desperate to switch back to his centuries old tongue, she knows he’s struggling to keep his sangfroid, He’s nervous, very nervous, maybe a few seconds away from being a complete body trembling mess, seeing Klaus direct such fury, such explosive anger at him was clearly disarming,

Oh but Henrik, was steadfast and stubborn, he doesn't show his fear of rejection and stomps on, Nobody would know he’s minutes away from anxious tears,

This is huge for him too, you know, he’s been waiting for four whole years to meet his family, yes it’s not as earth-shattering as it is for the Mikaelsons because Henrik knew he was going to be reunited with his family, and had time to prepare, but Pumpkin is scared they wont accept him, He doesn’t show it, of course, the picture of serene composure, but you can’t hide anything from her Henrik, and she knows this is difficult, your swaying towards her, you've already broached the barrier and are standing inside it, she can see your hand itch to take hers, and God, is it wrong that she’s comforted by the idea that you need her as much as she does, that you choose her to give you strength, that she is elated you see _her_ as your stronghold and not your own family in this situation, 

She will not feel guilty for being selfish with her feelings for you, especially when she’s being selfless with her actions for you.

Klaus doesn't want to hear another word, from this fraudster’s mouth, 

But her intent Pumpkin plows on. Stubborn and Steadfast.

She likes to think those are _her_ traits that he compliments in his own character, but she knows he’s steadfast as Elijah and stubborn as Klaus, and there, she’s put back in her place, of _not_ family.

“After I died, I was buried the sunrise that came next, but do you remember that the consecration of my soul happened only after Mother turned you? And no one, not one of you, not even father was there to witness it.”

Klaus and Elijah, the only two people in the room who were able to pose the palest simulacrum of composure, snapped straight at that, because it’s true, 

Henrik’s consecration was an unattended solo event, neither his siblings nor his father were able to partake in it, the sun and their rampant thirst to kill and feed kept them from going to the consecration grounds, and this is something only the family knew, and nobody else could possibly have known, 

This ‘imposter wearing their brother’s face’couldn't have learnt it from anyone other than family, so of course Klaus sticks to that possibility, that this was indeed family, 

“How very _imaginative_ of mother this time around,”

Henrik’s genuine confusion doesn't deter him

“You _scoundrel,_ you are the nucleus of another one of Esther’s sordid machinations, aren’t you? There is no other possible explanation I would spend an ounce of energy believing.”

He gives an exhausted disbelieving bitter, _bitter_ chuckle,

“ _Bloody Hell.”_

And now a derisive huff as he half turns to the side running a palm down his face, 

He’s obviously grasping at the last slipping strands of his shredded lucidity, then he abruptly spins back again, implosive aggression teetering at the edge, ready to command his hand of its own accord.

“ _Just_ How many times do I have to end that wretched woman and her interfering blasted hands. How many bloody times do I keep sending her back to the other side where she _bloody_ belongs only for her to strut right out. How many times will it take for her to get it through her thick skull, that my redemption, this family’s redemption is not just bloody impossible but wholly and utterly _unwelcome._ I will not sit idle as this, _THIS_ , happens right in front of my eyes,”

He turns to face her, and points at Henrik“Heretic, you will _end this._ Right this second _,_ You're mask has been snatched, the tale you were set to spin has been thwarted, you have no underpin to push this fallacy forward. _End this.”_

Damn it she knew this wasn't going to be easy, and damn her more, because for all her reservations —reservations being a very light word—against Henrik’s millennium late family reunion, she really is going way out of her way to make it at least a minimal success.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying this pumpkin, but screw the plan, we’re bringing out the big guns a little ahead of schedule. Skip straight to the twelfth step and hit.”

“But, but it _is_ a 12-step plan. Caro, I haven't even walked to the explanation part which is the third step—” 

“The explanation won’t make them believe you, proof will, tell him, tell him why you are Henrik, son of Mikael, born exactly sixteen winters after the battle of Hafrsfjord in the Skammdegí month of Mörsugur, who saw his tenth and last winter in the Nóttleysa month of Skerpla. Tell him what he doesn't want to hear.”

Henrik looks at her, gives her this small, small smile, and its not grateful, its not accepting of her proposal hell its not even acknowledging it, he smiles so small, because its an instinctual reaction to smile so wide at the sight of her face, that he needs to tramp it down and not let it grow, because he knows its not entirely conducive to the atmosphere they're working in, and his features have to remain delicate and rounded. So he won’t let the smile flourish and take over his face, but she can hear the fondness in the silence, he's probably musing in his head ‘Caro, you are not reciting the [Heimskringla](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heimskringla) for the people, bring down the drama, yes?’

Unlike the tiny Viking in front of her, She doesn't bother to curb her smile, lets it spread and shine, only for her little Pumpkin to see, 

Of course the exchange is preyed upon with indecipherable scrutiny from the brothers still standing, but she couldn't bring herself to care about the conclusions Klaus was probably jumping to, they’ll be refuted thoroughly soon enough, instead she places a supporting hand on Henrik’s shoulder, squeezes and steps back.

He takes a small breath, eye contact that flamed and flared at the edges is directed towards one Big Brother Nik. and—

“On the night I died big brother, fullt tungl nótt, við sátum á eik tre*—”

(* the full moon night, we sat on an oak tree,)

“ _Stop this._ You are _not_ my brother. _”_

“If I told you the last words I ever spoke and the very last words you spoke to me, before I departed on the night I died, would you believe me Nik?”

“You could never, You can’t. The only way, _the only way_ you could possibly know those exact words would be if you had access to my mind, to my thoughts and memories--”

He pauses as if to realise something inherent that should’ve been obvious all this while,

“…And it wouldn’t take _any_ stretch of imagination to conclude you have a propensity for mind reading. I imagine psychic abilities is just another confounded faculty of your sorcery, _Heretic._ ”

Okay why does He keep directing his _confounded_ conclusions at her, God.

Grow a spine and look your bother in the eye, goddamnit. She wants to yell, 

But she won’t, she understands what it feels like for your reality to _convulse_ into something so indecipherably _wrong_ , you don’t think it’s shifted axis, you know it’s no longer spinning.

But she has neither time nor benevolence to go soft on you, you who will be stealing her Pumpkin from her,

“What? _No._ Seriously Klaus? ‘ _Psychic abilities’,_ I mean your conspiracy theories are fascinating, but no I don’t— _mind read_ , and I know, you have no reason to believe me, but ask Freya, the only way someone could read your mind is if they channel your being, I haven't channeled any one of you, because channeling has to be consented by both sides. Hell, I haven't even _touched_ one of you, and physical contact is a pre-requisite for channeling magic”

She knocks on the barrier still present around her and Henrik as if to say “see?”

“Those are the rules, ask your witch,—“

“And we’ve already established Heretic, you don't bloody conform to these rules. You’re a witch who is also a vampire, by the Gods, that alone nullifies any axiom truth you pose to claim, I think we’re past the point of referring to the Supernatural Handbook of rules and regulations when it comes to this one, you will hear this come out of my mouth for the last and final time, Heretic, _End. This.”_

See _that_ , she resents that, she abhors it, 

_She_ is not above these rules, she never _wanted_ to be above these rules, She does conform to these rules, just in the dark where no one bothers to squint enough to see it, She likes these rules, she doesn't want these rules gone, or to bend away from her, or disappear once she enters the fray, she doesn't want to be above it all.

She doesn't want to be _God._ Okay? 

Because, to become God, it’s the loneliest achievement of them all.

_“Bullshit_ , My magic obeys those rules just fine, Hell, I could say the same about you, you’re a freaking hybrid _too_ you know, you’re not supposed to exist either, yet here we are. You could use that same logic everywhere for that fact and run around in circles because you can’t prove or disprove anything. The supernatural world does have rules and regulations but the first rule has always been, _‘there will always be an exception’_ ”

—an abomination.

Freya, thankfully, finally interrupts.

“Brother it is true, she is a hybrid with the duality of witch and vampire, but she is no psychic, witches have an inherent ability to detect such powers, and I detect no such power.”

Klaus gives her a _‘and why was I not made aware of this._ ’ look, Freya is barely bothered as she continues

“Witches, all witches before their time, especially as young’uns have psychic powers, its how their anarchic magic manifests, as bursts of either divinations, or telekinesis or sometimes clairvoyance, it’s how members of our kind who can't actively take part in witchcraft are identified, you could say, its how witches detect fledglings amongst ourselves, if she’s reading your mind I would've known, as every witch at the end of the day is a psychic, the magic we command is merely a more regulated— _seasoned_ manifestation of it.”

“ _Thank you for that,_ Now let’s see, it’s not your extremely dead and desiccated mother’s black witchy mojo, It’s _not_ me being the female version of…Edward Cullen, and it most definitely is not a hallucination or a figment of your imagination because well—”

She ruffles the mop of soft brown hair at the top of Henrik’s head, as if to show here, he’s _real,_ I’m touching him see?

Henrik’s lips quirk up in the corner in a tiny instinctive smile as he lightly raises his head into her hand.

“—I mean he’s right here, and I swear to god if your next attempt at denial is calling him a ghost, I—“

“ _Well_ to be fair to him, it is the night of Samhain, Caro. Ghosts are veritably _assigned_ passage to their homes.”

“Not helping here Pumpkin. But the point is, if he can tell you the exact words, the very last words you spoke to each other, you will not believe him, In all honesty, you should not believe him, God knows if you _do_ believe him I’d have overly overestimated you, _keep_ your suspicion and distrust—“

“And this is supposed to be helping?”

“—but give Henrik the time of day, to methodically explain _with_ incontestable evidence why the only possible explanation for him to know such a personal and guarded secret is the fact that he was just as much as part of the secret as you. Deal?”

And then the most riotously weak rasp, swaddled to the nose with emotions unimpeded, 

_“Deal.”_

Ironically enough it was Elijah who let out said weak rasp, 

And Henrik gives him one of _those_ smiles, the one that is directed with his whole body, the curve on his lips ripples across his entire face, and she hates that till this moment she was the only recipient for such smiles, and now she no longer has the privilege of saying “Me, _only_ me.” 

She hates that Pumpkin, she’s selfish enough to admit it.

But do you wanna know what she freaking hates more, that she’s smiling too Henrik, almost as wide as you,

Because, damn you to the heights of heaven but she’s happy for you too Pumpkin, How can she possibly _not_ be, She’s tried being bitter and selfish in the corner, alone and away from your caring eyes, but she can’t, it’s just, she can’t

She wont say it’s because her love is too pure

Her love sucks, like literally sucks, it sucks out your soul and _extinguishes_ it, her love is toxic and dirty and dangerous and destructive, but you Pumpkin you’re none of those things you’re pure and innocent and just love and _peace_ embodied and you somehow, you _nullify_ every horrid aspect about her love and she can love you in a healthy, beautiful untainted way, but _just you._

Don't you understand Pumpkin, it can always _only_ be you, she cannot love someone as thoroughly as she loves you. 

So understand Henrik, that if she can't be the person who put that precious smile on your face, then at least let her be there to witness it when someone else does, just please let her stay Pumpkin, She’s let go off too many people she hadn't even _held_ in the first place, but you, you did allow her to hold you, closest to her heart you’re the first person she’s _connected_ with in four hundred years Pumpkin, don't take that away from her, because she sure as hell isn't brave or strong or even good enough to let go.

“Elijah, I bloody hope that five-feet long rod stuck up your arse has finally reached your brains and scrambled it, because I assure you, I will not entertain any other possible reason for this-- _this_ _mockery_ to persist any longer.” 

Klaus turns to Elijah with such a comical look of agitated disbelief, it makes her internally snort.

Henrik completely ignores Klaus, as it seems to be a working trend in the family and with all the hope and joy and warmth of a lil smurf, coos,

“I _o-officially_ like you better, ’Lijah. Thank you so much for the chance, bróðir.”

And then he beams at her, pride in his voice for successfully using a new word—that didn't mean much during his millennium past childhood—in a sentence, but all she can notice is how _unsteady_ Elijah is, how he takes another step back, and he’s so _so_ scared, and she knows what you're scared of,

He’s terrified to _hope._

It’s okay Elijah, she rarely is a hope giving symbol of life and new beginnings, but she’ll make an exception for you— by which she means she’ll make an exception for Henrik, 

“In this house, _I_ have the final say Heretic, and I have all but decreed through a Royal missive, your end. And how you’re death will be a shrine to the absolute desolation I have unceasingly wrought upon this earth, that is the promise from an abomination, little _Witch-pire_ , it holds twice the weight than that of a saint’s.”

Oh- _KAY._

See _that_ was uncalled for, Witch-pire? _Seriously?_

Didn't she just say that she hated, _loathed_ that term, it’s as cheap and tacky as the resident megalomaniac’s incessant ranting, 

The guy literally said the same three things, in three different ways, as if he’s stuck in a carousel but chooses a different horse each round.

Well, guess what, she too has a lot to say to you _,_ you _little Vamp-wolf._

_“_ Okay listen here _buddy—“_

Sensing the brother will neither talk _to_ _him_ , nor shut up, and that should she start verbally destroying Klaus, she’ll enjoy it too much and wont stop either, Henrik charges full speed forward.

“The wolves, their _howls,_ we were talking about their howls.”

Time doesn't cease, nor does the air, but Klaus does,

He doesn't dare utter a word, simply takes another stuttering breath, and you can see he wants to rub his chest to relieve the pressure, you can see the air _burns_ through his time-rusted lungs.

Henrik decides the next few minutes of conversation were best done in their native language, but Pumpkin taught her his tribe’s tongue just as she taught him English and she has no trouble keeping up,

“We were siting on an oak tree in the woods, we chose to hide in that exact tree because it was the easiest one to climb and also had the thickest branches, you hauled me up first and followed suit, sat on a branch just below me. It was our intention to witness the wolves transform first hand, but no wolf turned anywhere near our tree so we couldn't actually watch them, but as soon as the moon reached its apex, the men and women started screaming in pain and we heard gruesome crunching of what sounded an awful lot like bones, and you asked me to count, count till the pained noises stopped, I counted exactly 453 snaps of my finger, and that's when the first howl sounded, then they all started howling together, back and forth, we could hear them running and growling once they started moving closer to our tree, but they never got to us, they diverted, then the howls became sporadic, randomly one would sound then another that is when I asked—

‘How do they know if the other howl is an answer or just an echo, brother?’

You said,

‘They don’t Henrik, they just hope it’s never silence.’

We didn't say anything after that for a while, just listened to them brother, but they finally picked up on our scent and made their way towards our tree, six of them stood beneath us, I even pointed out that one had fur the exact shade of your hair, brother. They just stood there calm and steady, all of them were looking at you and only you, and I said—

‘The wolves remind me of you, Nik.’

I was worried you’d take it as the worst insult possible, what with father always calling the wolves filthy names and saying the nastiest things about them, but you didn’t, you just said 

‘They remind me of a home.’

Not _our_ home, not _the_ home, just _a home,_ so I clarified,

“you mean our home Nik? How so? I can see Kol being rabid as these wolves and Rebekah’s whining isn't far off either, but—” 

you cut me off and told me, 

“Not our home Henrik, just a home.”

Which bothered me so I told you the last thing I would tell you in an entire millennium.

“But there can always be just one home Nik, one safe place, one winter shelter, one warm hearth, one place of family and faith, and that’s not our home for you is it? You don’t think our house is your home, you don’t.”

You didn't say anything, you remained so silent, you weren't even breathing, you just stared at the wolves, and they stared back, so I reached down from the branch above you to take your hand,

in retrospect I should've just touched your head.

Because that’s how I lost my balance and that’s how I fell to my death.

The rest, well I can’t possibly know, I died, I’m not denying that brother, I did die, you did run with my mauled dead body all the way back to the place you didn't consider home, all of that happened, my death _happened,_ but now I’m back brother, I truly _truly_ am, I swear it, I can explain all of it, _all of it_ , I swear, just please, you have to listen brother, please Nik, tell me you’ll listen, tell me, _please?_ ”

He says nothing, merely stares at the floor. Time that didn't cease, trudges along.

_ “Nik?” _

There are certain silences that can be heard and other silences that can be felt, but some times there are silences utterly void of feeling and voice, planets could collapse and stars implode but it will all be nothing in comparison to words that come next to fill the emptiness.

“ _Little brother_.”

He _begs_ in his native tongue, 

He begs, ‘I haven't believed, but I’ve hoped now, I am but a single step from irrevocable ruin, do not push me down that pit. _Please_.’

And he flashes forward, gathers his brother in his arms with such urgency, such desperation, such hope, and so much fear, he gasps and clasps him so close, buries his nose in his hair, pulls him even closer and just breathes through the salt in his eyes, she knows this is the closest he’s come to crying in a long, a little too long time, he won’t let a single drop fall, but he’ll exist in the emotion nevertheless.

And every other sibling follows, Kol right after Klaus, wraps his arms around both his brothers, suffocating one and holding the other with such precious reverence and _thought_ , tears leaking freely, face contorted in a different combination of the same aforementioned emotions, repeating again and again just the one word in his native tongue, _“brother”_

Rebekah enters the fray, crying so loudly, all red and splotchy, she cries the same way as Rebekah you know, puts her lungs into it and her chest and her bones. She’s an ugly wailing crier just like her. 

She w raps herself around _her_ brother. And cries gloriously into all three of her brothers' shoulders.  Henrik runs his hand through her hair _so_ softly, with so much love, and so much fondness, its in his eyes rather than his face, the love he’s feeling.

And then it hits her, a lost stray thought, that stayed from the blackest recesses of her mind. That strayed too far,

Maybe all this while she had just been a stand-in-Rebekah for Henrik, the closest model to his sister he could get, to while away his time and affection on till he could get to the real deal. 

And yes, she wants to slap herself, multiple times, for thinking something as _obscene_ as that, but as usual the cynic in her that ruled over her optimism every time she faced an insecurity, told her you yourself have in three separate occasions found yourself relating to Rebekah in just the past hour, and that too physical similarities not withstanding.

She can’t deny it, I mean it’s right there, Rebekah and herself are far too similar for it to be a happenstance he got attached to her, probably soothed himself saying that this was Rebekah for the time being, a parody perhaps before the original (pun not intended) herself arrives.

She stamps down, grinds it with her heel and kicks away the dead carcass of these thoughts, 

_No_ , her Pumpkin is better than that, she may not be, but her Pumpkin is, he didn’t use her, he hadn’t used her as a makeshift interim sister. 

No, the love she sees in his eyes is special because that love that she’s seen in so many other’s eyes was _finally_ directed at her and was _meant_ for her.

She suddenly hopes too, with fear trudging closely along , that it’s not wishful thinking saying all of this.

Elijah finally enters the group hug, face stricken, and he is boundless in his emotions, they whip about him fast and unrelenting, but he isn't bothered, 

Here is Home, here is heart and here is finally hope.

And they all sink down in unison, in this great big Mikaelson cuddle-pile to the ground, snivelling and grasping and disbelieving and desperate.

and it hurts her that she’s so _happy_ for you Henrik.

But you’ve got family now, all she’ll ever be is well, how platitudinous, but _not family._

But then her pumpkin’s head breaks the surface, and he looks her in the eye, all the love and belonging he feels for his family shining through every inch of his body, and through out it all, through all the love in the world, through all the _completeness_ in the world, he holds her eyes and mouths,

“You’re the best, Caro.”

But she’s only looking at his eyes, none of the love that shone so bright as he was _engulfed_ by his family diminished or changed, all of it, every last sliver of it, is directed towards _her._

And you know what throws her off-axis, _spins_ her off-axis, so _treacherously,_

_That_ look, that exact look of love and family, its always been there when he looks at her, its been there everyday for the last four years, its nothing new, there is no missing piece that suddenly slotted in his heart that makes his smile only a bit brighter and eyes only a bit fuller, its always been that complete, that whole, and it was because of her, only her.

And no she was never ‘not enough’ for you, Henrik. She sees it now.

Even at the pinnacle of love, at the very zenith, she compares and she comes out equal.

And God—

Do you know how much that means to her, that she was never just a rung below what you needed, what you wanted, that she was enough. That she wasn’t second best to your family.

that she was, _is_ first too. 

And God, can you just hear her heart just— _sing?_

Because she can and it’s a glorious tune,

“Don’t I know that, Pumpkin.” She mouths back.

And its weird that she means that Henrik, that she finally knows that you don't just love her, but you love her the best, 

She’s sorry she was so blind to this Pumpkin, she’s sorry for ever doubting you.

She’ll make it up to you, she wont let neither time nor distance, family nor jealousy, or any other hideous obstacle thrown her way, to let you be pulled away from her, she’ll fight for that look in your eyes to just remain, doesn't matter if it’s towards her or someone else, you’ve already given her everything she’s ever wanted, you can take all of her now, she wont complain. 

But she sees the intimate moment happening between the family and decides she wont intrude, easily puts her cloaking spell back on and she disappears,

Marcel still standing at the edge of the scene, is clearly unable to get over this _radical_ show of overwrought emotions brimming and spilling, flooding and drowning the room. It’s like centuries worth of blithe indifferenceto the most despairing and haunted of occurrences is being compensated presently by the Originals, that too with such _florid_ care, the iron curtains guarding their sentiments has been ripped into god knows how many pieces, no wonder Elijah’s first instinct was to get every vampire to exit the premises so that if they do have a Mikaelson sized meltdown, they'll at least do it in dignity.

Freya obviously notices her sudden disappearance, but is too caught up being pulled into the Original Snuggle Bundle to say anything. 

It takes them a good handful of minutes to stop the waterworks, I mean its Henrik, the long lost brother, taken before his time, his short, _extremely_ short life of ten years compensated with their ten centuries, the one part of their childhood, of their humanhood that hasn't been tainted by Esther, Mikael or for that fact the siblings themselves, So its obvious the elaborateness of their feelings and emotions, how very _visceral_. Because its for the one member of the family who is still loved with love, instead of hate. Who is still just _loved,_ no ‘buts’ following, no semi-colons or ‘althoughs’.

Just Loved, pure and innocent and human, now how many things in the Originals’ life can boast something like that, so yeah, their _grasping._

It’s weird how sentences like ‘loved with love, instead of hate’ only make sense within this family.

But she resists judgement, and chooses to concentrate on the fact that she hates how much common she has with this family, which is exactly as of now (or so she deludes to believe) is one thing: Henrik. And they're hoarding him.

Henrik finally resurfaces from the heap and smiles beautifully at her, sees right through the cloaking spell as usual, and mouths 

“Get them off me,”

She just laughs and shrugs, nobody except Henrik can see or hear her reaction because of the cloaking spell, but Henrik’s rather loud and seemingly irrelevant huff of irritation gets their attention and slowly the tangle of limbs, separates to leave one very breathless, tear-streaked Henrik in the middle.

As they slowly rise to their feet, Klaus pulls Henrik to his side, arm protectively banding over his shoulder holding him close and tight, as if he’ll use the strength of the thousand stars he’s seen in his thousand years to protect him, 

But she can see what you don't want her to see, Klaus is leaning on _him_ , its very slight but its there, so she doesn't particularly care for your posturing, gain your bearings, hold your own and then issue whatever threat is going to leave your mouth in 3, 2 —

“Heretic show yourself, this instant.”

Well that was ahead of schedule.

She calmly circumnavigates and positions herself one step right behind his back and brightly calls out,

_"You called?”_

The speed with which he spins is _unruly._

Face not bothering to hide his surprise, he looks at her with such irritation, she can’t help but allow the smug smile take over her face.

She quotes, ‘ _you have irked me.’_ she’s not gonna defect character now, is she?

The siblings all unanimously push Henrik back— God why are they such _dorks_ — and stand a united line of defence between her and Henrik, crowding him. 

I mean, do you understand the _audacity,_ it takes to even insinuate that she’d do anything bad to her pumpkin, she has half a mind to blast them all to their respective walls, just so that she can give the celebratory-congratulatory hug to Henrik she’s been itching to give for the last three minutes.

“ _Name your price, Heretic._ ”

what— _oh_ …

“God, someone really needs to educate you on the definition of a gift, I’ll be awaiting your thank you fruit basket when it finally gets through to you.”

“Now, now we’re both centuries old _adults_ here,

—she wants to snort—

“I for one am certainly above this nonsense. And for your sake, Heretic, I hope you are too.”

—she actually does snort now—

“you will explain to me, unsparingly, down to every last trivial detail, how this came about to be, and then you will name your price.”

Well look at that, wasn't she the one imploring him to listen to the explanation two seconds ago, and now he turns right back around and demands it,

“Henrik your interruption will most definitely go pardoned right about now.” 

She wants Henrik to explain everything just as they had decided.

“Well I would, if I was given the land to breathe, I remain human here brothers and well _sister-s._ That’s not wholly new, but, I look forward to getting to know you and loving you, Big sister Freya.”

Look at him laying it on thick, little charmer.

He pushes past his siblings and how they try to pull him back, he was having none of that, he comes through, stands right beside her, grabs her hand—her heart _still_ flutters— and says,

“Introductions are being needed,”

“Hold on a minute, what do you mean by, _‘sister-s’_ as in plural, is not exactly new to you, _H-Henrik_.”

Rebekah cant help but stutter when saying his name.

“Exactly why we need introductions sister. Caro, meet my family, Nik, Kol, Bekah, Lijah and Freya, oh and of course my _nephew_ ” he giggles, “Marcel.”

Marcel cannot help flash that beautiful smile of his, a good-natured shake of his head and stands just a tiny bit closer to the family, and looks at Henrik with such awe and if she’s not being mislead, such veneration, it’s funny how her little pumpkin has these centuries old beings wrapped around his pinky in under 8 minutes of his arrival. 

“Now family, meet my other _Family,_ Caroline. She’s my sister.” 

And he holds her hand just a tad tighter.

And of course the only thing the Mikaelson’s notice is that he said, _My sister_ , not _our sister,_ and thats enough of an opening for them to exploit, an opening big enough to shove her out right through it.

But she doesn't even notice it, 

_God_ Henrik, the things you do to her—

She knows you see her as family pumpkin, she got that revelation shoved right in front of her face, as epiphanies usually are, in the most unsuspecting moment which was four years a bit late, but to hear it come out of your mouth, with such _finality_ , as if to say, this is my word, my declaration, my proud proclaim, I dare you to repudiate it, I dare you.

That you would claim her as yours, _My sister_ , God she’d cry if she didn't have so many unwanted eyes peeping in,

She really hopes she doesn't break your fingers with the death grip she’s holding it in, you don't even look at her to see her reaction, its nothing monumental for you, it’s almost like it’s habitual for you, is that how you refer to her in your head? _My sister_.

Is that why it’s so easy to say, like it’s just her title in your head, not Heretic, not Caroline, just sister.

God she doesn't even know if her emotions are held in, she knows she sucked in a breath, the second you said the word _‘family’_ twice, but she doesn't know what’s going on on her face, do you understand how _mindless_ she is around you pumpkin, she can feel her emotions tangibly exit her and engulf her from the outside in, like her feelings decided ripping her open from the inside does not suffice, lets pierce right through her from the outside, let her exist in us and through us.

But then she catches sight of Klaus’s face and she knows whats displayed across her eyes, it’s awe, it’s wonder, it’s reverence and most of all it’s such _incriminating_ disbelief, and he knows just as much as she, those emotions only come from an undeserving woman. A woman with her head screwed on right enough to pass sound judgement and decisively assign herself unworthy, but that doesn't stop her from greedily taking what she’s been given so freely with both hands, that she will take with thanks but would never pay it back, because how could she? 

She is unfit for having it in the first place. 

And she can discern all of this from one look at Klaus because what he’s wearing on his face, is recognition, recognition of self, he himself knows he too is unworthy— _the_ most unworthiest person if you ask her— of this second chance at family, at home, at _unconditional love_ , because thats the only way Henrik knows how to love.

But he is hypocriteenough to condemn her of being not enough, of not deserving of Henrik, and eradicating her for being so, while he turns around and revels in the same thing as if he owns it, as if he earned it. 

She can see the disapproval, no the absolute opposition, the rebuke play out uninhibitedly on his face for such a vacuous notion. Her being _Family,_ How imbecilic, she cannot be trusted.

“Just tell us this, _Why little brother?_ ”

It’s three words that come out of Elijah’s mouth, and they hold the same _magnitude_ as the speaker himself,

And Henrik looks at her, in the eye, pulls her near, stands a bit closer himself,

“Because she earned it brother.”

And,

Ugh, _Henrik._

_How_ many times does she have to tell you, she does _not_ like having her painstakingly long, a touch over-dramatic largely melancholic inner monologues, destroyed to freaking _incoherence_ by your three-worded sentences.

Your three-worded sentences that take one look at her mutinous, _traitorous_ thoughts and go, _nuh-huh._

That conquer and annihilate every last whiff of insecurity and doubt, inescapably.

She doesn’t ask for you to do it, but that doesn't stop you. She knows you can discern her emotions better than anyone because of the time she spent with you in the Void, she admits she didn't like that at first, but you really don't let anyone disagree with you for long Pumpkin. 

And now, her you are, Stalwart Crusader standing tall and hefty against the brunt of her insecurities, categorically dismantling any and all reservations she so carefully, over-thoughtfully built over the four years you knew her, Do you freaking see that her entire belief system is being _bulldozed,_ here.

Pumpkin, you can’t just go around saying stuff like that it doesn’t—

_“Caro_ , you can stop sparkling now.” He looks at her eyebrows raised expectantly.

It takes her a second to articulate

“You’re sparkling, look.” He insists,

“What—”

She looks down at her hand, and sure enough, her _Siphoner’s glow_ is on full swing, her body is _not_ sparkling, she is glowing, not sparkling, _glowing_ , we’ve been through this before, Vampires _do not_ sparkle, Henrik

Her entire body is siphoning magic, _unbeknownst to her_ , from the surrounding area, clearly she needs to put a lid on her emotions, 

That’s when she notices the look on Klaus's face, 

She believes one would expect intrigue, bafflement or-if she may say so herself-even stupefaction to be the predominant reaction standing in front of a _literally_ sparkling being, a person with actual light radiating from them, 

But Klaus here, he's walked and extra millennium-long mile to be anything but _trite_ , so he neatly processes the scene in front of him, gracefully sifts through his centuries-amassed repertoire of esoteric emotions many of which he himself has pioneered and honestly authored and wonders upon wonders, chooses to display _irritation._

Well, what can she say, he's made up his mind to remain _irked,_ there's hardly anything she can do about it. 

But she understands the vexation, it's clear he's highly irritated at her _audacity_ to yet again, have another unprecedented quirk that's singularly unique to her and her alone, he loathes this position of complete lack of information he's in, 

Today the ringmaster, who controls not only the acts but the spectators themselves, is standing seven steps behind the largest dude in the audience, and isn't that an accomplishment. 

She'd say she's proud of singlehandedly levelling this larger-than-time man of such _immensity,_

But it doesn't matter 

Because _God_ , this unfettered Siphoner's glow of hers, it's like the first time its happened this century, fifth time in her entire life, 

When she siphons with her whole body, it is always, _always_ under her full control, but look at her now, 

Do you understand, how much she is _affected_ by your words Henrik _,_ how much control she is losing? That she is _stateless_ in her feelings.

She knows she’s been sparkl— _glowing_ ever since she heard you call her sister, 

This only happens when she _feels_ with her soul too and not just her heart, and her soul sings with the magic around her.

“ _Well_ , sorry about that, its—” She doesn't bother explaining, simply runs a hand down the front of her chest while exhaling a deep breath and the glow resides smoothly.

Henrik does bother explaining,

“It’s her _Sparkle-Vamp mode._ She’s like the Power Rangers during morphing time but with Pixie dust.” He helpfully educates.

_Okay._

She admits _,_ She regrets the day she decided to introduce daytime television to him, 

Sue her, but how was she supposed to know Peter Pan and the Red Ranger from Dino Force were going to be the prime time catalysts in integrating Henrik into the 21st century.

The first appearance of that phrase, well she remembers, she patiently explained what the word ‘mode’ meant, and when she asked him to make an example, he came up with _that._

_“_ For the _last time_ Henrik, Vampires do _not_ sparkle.”

“ _Nonsense_ , of course they do, your Caro-twinkle remains proof.”

And _that_ was the example he came up with when she explained the word _twinkle._

“No _listen_ to her Henrik, Vampires do _not_ sparkle. Believe me they don’t. First rule of Vamp-club, you don’t ever talk about that godforsaken _book._ ”

The vehemence with which Marcel reinforces her point is comical, eyes wide and imploring, clearly the human tourists that come here seeking many of the _biting_ pleasures of New Orleans as vampire enthusiasts have been reading the wrong books. 

“Exactly how many night-walkers did you lose because a vamp-fanatic dragged them out into the sun to see them sparkle.”

“Two new-born vampires when informed of their undead-ness ran out into the sun to see for themselves.”

_ “ _ Oh _ —ouch.” _

“Exactly, _ouch._ Hence I reiterate Henrik, **Vampires do not sparkle.** _”_

Of course the Originals momentarily loose track of the conversation, she doesn’t expect these plebeian folk to _conceive_ this literary wonder—a raconteuse's Pinnacle narration of romantic fiction— the uncultured swines that they are, but she won’t rub it in their face, she’ll just pretentiously roll her eyes at their cluelessness.

“Alright then, we stick with _Caro-twinkle,_ because that’s just for Heretics.”

“No we don’t.”

“ _Sure we do._ ”

“Henrik—“

“You sparkle and shine, you’re like Sunna's* minions, deal with it.”

(*The Goddess of the Sun in Norse Mythology)

_Deep breath._

“The _point_ is,” She directly speaks to the family now,

“Excuse me for that momentary lapse of… control. You don’t need to look so smug about that Henrik” she adds without even looking at him, and sure enough he has this insufferable little smirk on his face “As I was saying, I wasn’t _sparkling_ , I was glowing—"

“Glowing makes you sound like a firefly, an _insect._ But _sparkling,_ see that makes you sound like a Fairy.”

“And I Henrik am neither of one those things, so you’ll understand when I say, _I_ was actually radiating magic that I siphoned out of the air, unknowingly of course, it doesn’t happen often—“

“It doesn't happen at all.”

She still doesn't look at him, doesn’t need to see him to picture the shit-eating grin he seems to have on him, anytime he finds a way to best her in some form or the other,

“Again, off with that lofty smirk, Henrik.” 

It only grows wider.

“The point is—”

“ _The point is_.” He parrots

“Henrik—“

“ _Henrik.”_

_“_ Pumpkin what are you doing—“

_“Pumpkin what are you doing.”_

Finally she turns to gives him the attention he’s clearly been vying for _._ His eyes have the usual mischief they always carry, but he also looked at her expectantly as if she was missing something here.

“Hold on am I missing something here?”

“ _Finally_ she realises,” he exasperates “Yes, the thirteenth step to our 12-step plan. I was really hoping, forgoing the first eleven steps did not mean walking over the thirteenth one too, Caro.”

She let’s out a tiny giggle at his adorable reminder, and obliges on the very last phase of their plan by pulling him into a great big hug, it’s more sideways than straight, but she swathes him in her arms no less, cheek pressed to her chest and his head just below her chin, 

“There, one massive _‘yay-us!’_ Snuggle just for you.”

He nuzzles into her, arms winding around her torso pulling tight and holding close, bodies warm, and do you know that it’s still a novelty for her, this touch, this intimacy, this honesty. She wasn't allowed this, she was _denied_ this for so long, and she still can’t bare to just _take it_ when it’s given to her, afraid it’s a tease, a preview that will never widen it’s looking lens to reveal the whole picture. That she was undeserving of this for four hundred years and now look at her, held so whole, every broken part of her gathered in his arms utterly safe, not a single piece of her discarded as depraved or corrupt or _empty_ , everything is welcomed and given a place and is _held_ there.

Her soul will start singing again if you don’t let go Henrik, 

But then he whispers in the quietest voice that comes out muffled, a _‘thank you’_ so earnest and sweet, so true, it takes her a second to realise that she did this, all of this, _she_ reunited Henrik with his family, and she is so damn _happy_ for him. That he is so damn Happy.

If she’s being honest, Not the result she was expecting, till yesterday it was her greatest fear that she wouldn't accept Henrik as wholly as he did her if it meant him leaving her, but she has flattened every last one of her doubts, and here she is standing by her Pumpkin happy and cherished, accepting and whole.

She let’s the warmth fill her to the brim, and then slowly pulls away reluctantly, they still need to get the explanation out to the MikaelBros who are giving her one evil stink-eye, such distrust, it’d offend her but she finds it in her to empathise, _begrudgingly,_ but she understands it’s a little too much, so much baggage being dropped a their feet all at once, actually flung across their face, all at once, so she resists offence, and plows on with purpose.

“Now the Explanation you’ve been so patiently waiting for is best presented with your finest scotch, and of course if you don’t mind, a glass of warm milk for Henrik please, and trust me he has a lot to say so I’d suggest we make ourselves comfortable.” 

“But I had my daily glass of milk this morning, _Caro.”_ He whines _“_ The milk of this time is so _sucky_ , you know I don’t like it.”

“What actually is sucky pumpkin, is your attempts at stealth, I was practically in the same room when you poured your milk back into the serving jar this morning, I heard you do it, I know you didn't have a single drop of milk past the chocolates you gorged on today, so don’t pout, You’re a growing boy and you need your calcium.” She turns to the siblings, “Hence the glass of milk— _please_.” She adds remembering her manners.

He mumbles exasperatedly in his native tongue

“I concur Nik, Caroline is _irky_.”

“Irksome pumpkin, not irky”

“Then why do I say sucky instead of sucksome, if it’s irksome instead of irky.”

“We’ve been through this Henrik, English is a horribly indecisive language that cannot stick to one particular rule for the life of it, and also you say sucky because _I_ say sucky. Sucky is not an actual word, if it were we wouldn’t have words like irksome, or bothersome or _cumbersome_ , we’d just say sucky and call it a day—

She pushes Henrik forward, into Klaus and nods her head as if to say move along, Henrik turns around grabs Klaus’ arm in one hand and Rebekah’s in another and starts dragging them further into the compound walking backwards still facing her to keep the conversation flowing, previously shaken that the sibling were, they put up no fight and stumble to catch up with the brisk pace Henrik’s short legs set, 

“—But since the world _doesn’t_ revolve around us, _we articulate and let articulate.”_

“But Caro you once told me that Nik believes the world _does_ revolve around himself.”

She blinks, passes a look from Henrik to Klaus. 

“And I stand by what I said.”

“Well then you should know Nik you’re wrong, the world doesn’t revolve around you, it revolves around the sun, you know _sól,_ the sun is apparently _stopped,_ yes Nik stopped, and Sunna, apparently she doesn't chariot the sun across the sky everyday, Caro tells me it’s we who go around it, Midgardr, she calls it Earth, is what moves not sól, and also the world is not flat like mother and father would have us believe, it’s round, like a tomato, those are wholly tasty, we didn't have those back in our time, and also did you know the world tree-Yggdrasil is actually the _universe_ , which has galaxies, galaxies are like our realms but there are more than just nine, there are lots of them, lots and lots and lots of them, and galaxies have so-sol- _solar_ systems and our solar system has nine planets, well now it’s eight but Caroline tells me there were nine, the smallest was kicked out of the Knarr*, poor Pluto, I feel bad for him, and also—“

(*Viking merchant ship)

“Henrik, where do you think you’re going?”

He pauses mid-step, still walking backwards, a momentarily confused look on his face, Klaus and Rebekah who were raptly listening to a ten year old recite groundbreaking astronomical discoveries that took place during their lifetime, abruptly come to a stop, seemingly pulled out of the trance they were in, mesmerised by their little brother’s ability to talk an ear off or his mere presence, she’s not sure. 

It’s oddly endearing how all of the siblings look like they find a physical inability to take their eyes off of pumpkin for even a single extended second, such reverence, such wondrous adoration, she can thoroughly relate to ever bated breath, every affectionate shimmer of the eye, every stumbling step they take his way.

This Family loves him, This Family wants him, if there was ever any doubt in her mind regarding that, all of it has entirely vanished.

“The hearth-room, so we can sit and well, talk.”

“Pumpkin there are at least 8 different fireplaces in the ground level alone, so when you say hearth you mean the sitting room, which is this way.” She jabs a thumb to her general right.

“Now why would you and how could you possibly know the lay out to a Building you’ve never been in before?” Rebekah says as she pulls Henrik in and bands an arm over his shoulder.

“Who said I’ve never been here before, it took a lot of planning and forethought to make today happen, almost an entire year of it, I had to scout the grounds and the atmosphere here periodically, There was no way I was going to reveal Henrik’s existence right in the middle of a supernatural inter-faction war or during Aunt Dahlia’s visits, so yeah, I came here often, cloaked of course, so I do know my way through here.”

“Heretic, the more you reveal, the more disconcerting this situation grows, I’m warning you sweetheart, if you so much as dare to leave a single detail out I—“

“Will ask her very nicely and be very polite, and she will answer all your questions, if you promise not to growl.” Henrik asserts firmly, tugging Klaus’s hand to hold his attention, 

Klaus all of a sudden looks so helplessly mutinous as it finally dawns on him, a realisation even she herself has struggled with on the daily, that there is whatsoever no possible plausible way to say _‘No’_ to Henrik, and as all the implications that follow this new-found revelation fills his head, she sees the mini existential crisis that plays through his eyes and decides to help him out,

“Do not worry _Your Majesty_ ,” She drops a light courtesy, 

—because of course she’d walk around with a placard that spells out ‘Pretentious Posey’ pointed at him if she could, but she can’t so she'll settle for this, because honestly, finding someone who can very well show the same levels of tireless theatricality that she actively imbues in her life is a very rare occurrence, one she won’t be letting go anytime soon—

“I assure you, all your questions, queries and concerns will be satisfactorily answered to the best of my abilities but—“

“for that to happen you’re going to have to lend an ear to her first bróðir. So go on, where will we sojourn to speak.”

Klaus doesn’t like the fact that Pumpkin completes her sentences more often than not and vice-versa, don't worry she’ll routinely rub it in your face from now on. 

Henrik starts walking forward as he did backward still dragging Klaus and Rebekah with him, they stutter in their gait first but then  finally these millennium old beings of death and conquered life, these men and women so eternal, so permanent, that they do not follow the flow of time but guide it, decide that they are satisfactorily capable of putting one foot in front of the other without pitching sideways at the weight of their humanhood, 

“This way miss—” Elijah enquires as he briskly directs the others to the sitting room, 

“Oh, it’s just Caroline, call me Caroline.”

If they find the lack of a last name—indicating any subtext related to family—odd, they choose not to comment.

As the family navigates through the house, Henrik continues to prate on and on about everything new and old under the sun, walking in between Klaus and Rebekah, all the siblings are bewitched, with trance-like attention are enraptured, hanging on with both hands to every last word that spills at a dizzying pace from his mouth, savour every sound and expression, cavort every look sent their way, it’s clear they're trying to stuff themselves full with every renewed facet Henrik reveals, that hasn’t changed one bit in the last millennium, they keep switching tongues, Kol continuously finds some way to touch him, his hair or his hand or shoulders, Rebekah maintains the steady stream of silent tears spilling with such tender devotion, Klaus looks like he will fall to his knees any moment now to show he has already submitted, Marcel and Freya haven't removed themselves from the shock yet, and sturdy steady noble Elijah’s steps can't hide the light stumble every time he hears Henrik speak in their native tongue.

By the time they all settle down in the sitting room, Henrik has exhausted one tenth of his rigmarole, methodically debunking every legendary saga the family swallowed as the truth about the universe in their viking days, and the siblings listen on with the reverence of a disciple heeding the word of their messianic Leader and Lord. 

Finally as every person in the room takes a seat circling Henrik, the little boy himself sits on the couch and cuddles into Elijah’s side, pulling his elder brother’s arm around his shoulder and firmly locking it there, nuzzling in a little more into his chest for good measure, and look at the celerity with which tears spring to the brother’s eyes, as he bows his head and blinks them away rapidly, as he gently pulls him closer and tenderly presses a kiss to his temple, it’s unbecoming he believes for one such as him to _teeter,_ but teeter and sway as a parted ocean he does.

“There will be a lot to unburden, brothers and sisters and _nephew,_ ” He giggles again, “So where do I start?”

“The very beginning should be a good place as any.” 

“Well then I suppose it starts as all tales and trials in our family do, It starts with mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I KNOW it's a cliff hanger, again. I deserve to be attacked, and chased to the ends of Midgardr, but it's an unapologetic inflection of mine, can't do nothing about it, sowee.
> 
> I thought since today is Samhain, or well Halloween, I'd put this one out since the prompt 'Samhain' is what kicked this whole thing off and sowed the idea for this fic in my head. 
> 
> Thank you all for taking the time to read this story,  
> Your reviews, comments, likes are not just appreciated but demanded (jk) but like no seriously, your feedback is what drives me to sit back down in front of my computer and type away, it's my motivation and reward, reading your comments telling me you enjoyed this as much as I loved writing this is like a concentrated shot of sunshine and just plain joy in my life.  
> Absolutely look forward to hearing your thoughts, and constructive criticism is wholly WELCOME. (Rip me apart softly though.)
> 
> Don't worry I do not intend to keep you guys waiting for long.  
> I pinky promise.
> 
> LOVE  
> xx  
> Srishti.


	3. Gallows Humour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO A FEW NOTES BEFORE I START THIS CHAPTER,
> 
> This chapter is HEAVY on the exposition and monologues, especially monologues, and I mean vocal outward monologues not inner monologues, there's a lot of monologuing, villainous monologue, heroic monologues, bored monologues, it's an assortment of monologues, this chapter is more so an exposition or blatantly explanatory in it's writing than scenic. I'm very new to the writing scene and this fic is my first ever multichapter, I'm testing out writing voices and styles as I learn and grow my craft, and so far I've understood that I work best with third person limited from Caroline's perspective but while allowing other character voices to intefere strategically, I've also found atmospheric writing comes easy for me in scenes that take more action than dialogue, and since this chapter is heavy on exposition-y dialogues, I haven't done much scene building. 
> 
> This chapter also does not explain Henrik's return it simply skips right past it because I have a different tangent in my mind then what I originally set out to follow in the outline, so if you were expecting that sorry but you're going to have to wait a chapter or two for it.
> 
> That will be all, 
> 
> NOW Y'ALL CAN GO AHEAD AND ENJOY THIS MONSTROSITY.

* * *

Doesn't he stand, tall and handsome, a proud bastard.

So glorious, so immense this creature who stands before her, 

She thinks about something he would say, a little true, a lot pretentious,

_“I am a monument to all your sins.”_

Yes, that’s something he would definitely say, 

Her mind propounds to her artist, an image, a painting really, of this _mighty_ man, She can’t help but see him all alone in the canvas, he does takes up too much space there’s very little for others, so alone on the canvas he remains.

She sees horns, a bit cliched, she’s aware, but she sees them bloodied but never broken, she sees chest forever puffed in pride and bared to the world for there is no soft palpating organ within it he need protect, the sole of his feet torn from the countless steps he mapped hurried and panted, anticipated and in fear, sometimes away from his tormentor, sometimes towards the unchaining of his beast, the hunt he endured as both prey and predator in the millennium he remained only half. She sees ears perked, and hands drawn back, shoulders always ready but never tense, she sees the crevasse of his pupil that let's bleed a momentary gleam so blinding the sun is oddly subdued. 

He’s a very pretty picture, she admits, and she somehow always notices dimple first then fang, and her attention is always drawn back to dimple, the fangs are of little intrigue, hers are sharper. 

But that Hybrid gold, those are a different entity all together, it pierces her deeper than her own fangs have her palms on nights she couldn't control her inner magic, those are vividly obscure patches in her memories she doesn't appreciate revisiting, so she is sufficiently perturbed every time she stares into his eyes.

She thinks about getting lost in his eyes, and she huffs an amused breath, she’d be far too aware of his danger to be so reckless as to get _lost_. 

And she knows he senses her defences, her alertness, mistakes it for a prey’s instinct to survive, the Wolf looks forward to the hunt and the hybrid gold is smoothed to a cherub's smile, dimples poking. But she is no prey she’s neither predator, she’s nothing so feral, so primordial as him.

She’s a lone executioner.

His power fills the room and she feels her siphoning-soul waver and grasp at the unyielding lines of her own flesh, to rip and tear away, so that it may be free to devour this man who bested both sun and moon, bite by decadent bite. 

Well doesn't He stand there, tall and handsome, whole and broken, no part of him missing.

But then she’s reminded, the putrid decay of a thousand years burdened on his bone, singed on his flesh, so much like her, and yet so unlike, 

He holds in his hand such power she may only hold in the air between their skin, she loathes him for it, 

A thousand years and of all possibilities, of all endings and beginnings, of all the numerous paths he could carve for himself with fang and claw, this man who puppets the string of other’s fate as nonchalantly as a fool would do his own, this man who has with care and precision chosen a thousand different strokes of ink and charcoal as the complete master of his own vision, this immortal being who had his choices made for him in his human life but was given a thousand more years of choices in compensation, 

This man, this creature in the end chooses loneliness.

She loathes him for it, she scorns him for it.

She on the other hand was inflicted with this disease, the slow and cunning rot of loneliness, she was denied every hand she reached out for, she was barred from every land her heart found respite in, the witches saw her as treason, the vampires saw her as an anomaly, she has chased and chased and chased an elusive home, a translucent family for centuries now, and this man, this man right here has found it all, over and over and over again, to only spurn it with blithe indifference. 

She has no delusions of her own being. She knows she’s not better than him, she has just as much blood on her hands as he, if not more and she has existed less than half the millennium he’s lived, and this blood she’s spilt, neither her guilt nor regret have lessened the intensity with which the crimson of many of her victims—not all, some she doesn't regret killing, only regrets they can be killed just once—has shone behind her eyes every night before sleep. 

Her contrition doesn't lighten her conscience, and the guilt doesn't rebreathe life into her victim’s lungs. 

She was made to become the complete absence of all things life the day she was made a heretic. She sometimes on the days of her deepest self-perusals, has once or twice referred to herself as a void.  A soul-sucking void, if she’s a bit too critical of herself.

And she has tried to fill that void for centuries now with the souls of others she has siphoned by mistake or in malice, but she’s come to understand that the void is bottomless, and abyss can’t be filled, try as she may it will always remain empty. 

So she took the simpler way out and covered it from the top, and till this day she has been clanging these gates that have locked her inside this pit.

Usually the people she extinguished, it was an _accident_. She winces when thinking that.

The screams she heard sung in unison that her void listened to and preened, that saw the loosening bite of her victims nails on her arm as revered rapture, with soft strokes her void smoothed the pallor of dead sunken cheeks when hoarse Anatolian tongues whimpered for mercy, and these memories have never failed to make themselves known—anyone who looked would see them, especially when her chin's pulled back and ears perked with how wide she smiles—rancid and flowing as they judder the conscious toil of her mind to forget them, 

But she _remembers_ just fine, 

Mingled bazaars of overlapping voices and stingy fingers that jostled shoulders and tongues, lining the Ottoman trade routes were eviscerated of every hectic breath, men filled salizzadas beneath hunkering hooves, and biblically drunk sinners, littering the Venetian canals vanquished of every burgeoning soul, monasteries of the Nepalese glaciers that welcomed her with open arms and bowed heads slipped through her fingers as uncluttered ash, all because she had an _accident._

She can't help the wry scoff, the tucked hair and lowered eyes, or that wide, _wide_ smile.

What She also _remembers_ is the beginning of her life, when she woke with heavy lungs and buckled knees, four hundred years ago, as a full grown woman. 

She often believes that she was birthed into the world an adult, that her existence itself began as she woke under the ruins of the Temple of Aphaia in the circumnavigated island of Aegina, a women with a broken maidenhead with no recollection of ever bleeding between her thighs, she believes she’s never had a childhood for nothing so innocent could've been part of something as brightly tainted as her, but the one part of her beginning she remembers instead of believes is that her powers were not under her control. That her void never had a lid on it, and anything that got too close, that dared to breathe and touch her, ceased to exist because her void is greedy and relentless. 

That anything she pulled close sputtered out of breath and anything she held on to crumbled beneath her fingers. That she travelled across the island of Aegina on barefoot and in tattered rags, spanned the island with her heightened abilities in three days and two nights, sleepless and frantic and demon-eyed, and so very, lost. 

She also remembers snuffing out the existence of nine hundred and forty three men, women and children within these three days, because she latched on to them in desperation and confusion, begging and bleeding for help. 

That she didn't have enough tears to shed for these humans she murdered in _accident._

That she screamed and cried and howled in utter madness, because she hadn't the slightest clue why these humans simply dropped to the ground lifeless when they showed her mercy and compassion. 

That every women and child that dared to brace her shoulder buckled underneath her weight and crumpled to the ground dead.

She’d have been able to live with what she’d done had she chosen to kill these men and women. But these lives were taken because they allowed a moment of kindness towards her.

She has no qualms in killing men she chooses to execute, she enjoys the dimming of their eyes, the last quiver of their knuckles, and the delightful hushing of their breaths, but these deaths were not of her will, and yet they were by her own hand.

She remembers that she was given the strings of fate of others to twist and turn when she couldn't even hold on to her own, she who had no control over who she vanquishes for her void did not discriminate and welcomed every soul as its own. 

So she put a lid on it, a barrier over the chasm, a rampart to protect all those outside it. 

In other words a _cage._

So she knows she’s a hideous creature the devil will worship, so she’s not here to condemn him in righteousness, she’s here to loathe him in spite.

That this man who experienced every bleeding nightmare, ever fear-drenched breath, every shivering step with his family around him, with his brothers and sister around him, with his blood to protect and their hands to hold, that this man lived for a thousand years with all of this and still is a lonely fool.

She believes she deserves to scorn him. 

And here he is now, standing under damask draperies, the back of his thighs against the edge of smooth rosewood holding Her Pumpkin under his shoulder, nose buried in his hair, stubble on his cheek reflecting sunshine brown rather than ochre blonde because the sun thought different today,

And all she sees is that he’s too close to Henrik, he holds on too tight, his hand is too heavy on Henrik’s shoulder.

She thought she was over it, but she’s found she’s quite stubborn. 

Oh she’s happy, bubbling in joy apparently, that Henrik has reunited with his family, that he hasn’t stopped smiling so wide since his siblings embraced him. 

But that doesn’t stop her from remembering exactly who his family is, lost lonely creatures of such horrifying magnificence, who stand above life and beyond time. 

Too much power, too much control and too little inhibitions, Men who blame the past for their monstrosity, while welcoming the malady of their blood as death would an old friend. 

Broken sharp shards for men that pierce as harsh as their teeth. Burnt skin thats grown to thick leather that’s unresponsive. Such glorious hypocrites, with a golden crown of thorns that’s turned crimson against their own foreheads, she’d believe every word they say as if it were compulsion if she weren't so warped about the head herself. 

So sue her for being wary and watchful, this family is after all jagged rocks and rough edges, she’ll place Henrik’s bare feet on hers and walk for him if she has to.

But she concedes, she also sees the good in him, and she absolutely does not mean in any way or form the “moral” good in him. She doesn't think she’ll be able to see that with even a millennium old vampires heightened eyesight.

She means she sees the appreciable aspects of him, the powerful ones, the one that raises him from Predator to King but keeps him from being God. Right in the sweet spot. 

This man who is a hybrid like her, with all but a cant of his head commanded a hundred creatures who live by a code of no inhibitions, to ram-rod straight spines and alert ears, with a cant of his head pulled a roman legion from the hearts of these flailing greeks. 

She is impressed with his authority, the absoluteness of his word, but she’s far more intrigued by how this came about to be, she knows the story, it’s a tale of a man who never mind if he could love or not, it’s the tale of a man who could _rule._

The tale of course begins with a fight as all stories do,

He fought for this Kingdom, he fought for his family, he fought for his life, he fought for his beast, he fought for a fatherless existence, and he fought to be alone.

But the first fight unfurls coyly in a nondescript Podunk-town somewhere in Virginia, Mystic Falls if her sources were right, which they were,

This fight was for his wolf. A doppleganger, a vampire and a werewolf his weapons, and his enemy only himself. 

Katerina was a mistake he wouldn’t dare repeat, he after all has never made the same mistake twice. So the affairs regarding the doppleganger this time around were a bit bland, so unlike the predecessor.

The newly orphaned latest Doppleganger was far too easy, soft and unsuspecting, the teenage girl had readily welcomed Klaus into her house, under his ruse of being an old travel companion of her deceased father a few months too late to mourning, 

The girl was completely unaware that the shadows of the night, indeed, did prowl, that there areboogeymen existing as bloodsucking predators, beasts of fur and fang, and claws of sorcery in every obscured corner and shrouded alcove. 

The whole affair was so uncomplicated, it was honestly anticlimactic, the face-sharer was easily compelled to compliance, and purposefully kept healthy and alive through the days leading to the sacrifice,

The ritual itself was at best… _modest_ and at worse so thoroughly boring, it was as dull as the face sharer herself.

The doppelgänger was fed the elixir of life, Klaus having done extensive research on initiating his hybrid factory, a goal he had a thousand years to plan and perfect to the very last diminutive nuance, knew that doppelgänger blood was a pre-requisite to complete the transition of his future hybrids. Unprepared he was not, uninformed he was never, a trait she though she shared with him, that was of course until he met her, clueless and floundering. 

The girl, compelled to sleep throughout the ritual, was drained of blood in her sleep and woke up alive and unaware of her recent finicky death, a walking blood bag, the crux secret ingredient to his eternal wolf family, compelled to donate a pint of blood every two months because the poster 

“You don’t have to be a doctor to save lives, **JUST DONATE BLOOD**.” spoke to her.

Elijah who was then recently daggered, because he dared to kill the doppelgänger in retribution for, what he was then led to believe, Klaus dropping the rest of their siblings somewhere in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, was awoken and shown the ashened corpse of all three of his siblings, sufficiently assured of a mildly passive family’s continued existence. 

The two brothers then proceeded to begin their fight for a fatherless existence.

An amassed army was the first order of business, and phase one of the plan was to travel throughout the US, to assemble for themselves werewolves who were given the chance of immortality and reprieve from their monthly lunar agony, in return for their willing allegiance, Fang and boundless tongue was offered in exchange of broken bones and fur in all the wrong places, it was a pretty sweet deal if she does say so herself. 

Recluses with much loyalty to spare on the first person to even _consider_ them were targeted, scared deserters having no idea of how to cope with their fury situation and disowned youth on the run, were easy prey for Klaus to play God for,

Smaller insecure packs with scarce resources and enough internalised enmity to warrant 3 seasons of a CW teen-drama were broken, divided and conquered, 

Dissenters of Klaus’ will however were swiftly disposed off in such a manner that Klaus manipulated for himself, the ‘merciless yet just’ angle of characterisation amongst this brethren.

Legions gathered, soldiers trained, nomads given a home, and a sense of brotherhood was kindled amid his hybrids. 

He prepared them for battle, gave them his own version of ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen’ 

Probably later, alone, included his own diabolical-er version of “Mischief, thou art afoot” in front of a mirror with a shit-eating snicker behind his hand. 

He mouths with a saccharine tongue lightly licking the hybrids’ earlobe as his lips whispered Royal fancies of a King into their heads. 

They were cannon fodder, red herrings, and forward foot soldiers against Mikael, they didn't know this of course, Klaus always did. 

But he also found a sense of possession with his Hybrid army, any outlander who dared to malign his men, was dealt with publicly and given spectacular ends, they were his creations after all, his to make and his to break, Klaus made that very clear to Elijah when he found the older brother attempting to compel one of his minions to pilfer vague information of little value once.

What good was the uniqueness of the sire-bond if it could be replicated in compulsion.

The next day the Hybrids were on vervain, 

He manipulated this too, posturing bastard, claimed to his men, that he believes the hybrids should be able to defend themselves from bending to the absolute control of another, Never be in a vulnerable enough position for either him or his siblings to exploit, she’s pretty sure half the Hybrids fell in love at that moment, 

His Hybrids extolled him, and he revelled. 

God, he is such a dexterous conniver, so cruelly yet artistically _fiendish_ , she’d never thought she’d be confused if she should be raging on their behalf or setting laurels on the Alpha’s head for his impressive machinations, 

But the vervain paid off double time, when Mikael blew into town and shit hit the ceiling.

Whatever the Curse Breaking Ritual lacked in theatrical culmination, was more than compensated for with _intense_ melodrama when the final showdown with Papa Original took place.

The battle field was set in Mystic Falls, proximity to the doppelgänger and tinier populations would mean tinier messes to clean up after, settled this decision, 

Once Klaus was abundantly satisfied with the state of his hybrid army he relentlessly trained, he set out to sign his Declaration of War against Mikael, he would be no coward sitting on his hands, bouncing his feet waiting for his fate, living his life conforming to Mikael’s whimsies.

Oh no, Klaus thought enough was enough, and orchestrated a far more elegant and sophisticated version of “You, Me, _outside_ now.” 

Klaus had a witch from his pocket undo the sleeping curse placed on his stepfather at his behest, the witch was given an actual dialogue to deliver after waking the oldest Original, basically she convinced the Mikaelson Patriarch, that she was one of the never-ending line of witches who have been scorched and debauched by The Big Bad -recently turned- Wolf, and came here seeking righteous vengeance, she apparently was able to look into Klaus’ mind and find the one thing, one _entity_ , he feared the most, which just so happens to be you Oh Mighty Slayer of Beasts of both Fang and Fur, Sir Mikael, and then she let out a perfectly rehearsed wail and mourned the death of a made-up family

—complete with manufactured documents of citizenship and medical records of death should Mikael decide to test the credibility of the witch’s story, honestly, she likes it a little too much that Klaus was that thorough—

As per Klaus’ scheming the witch continued to prate about how she wanted retribution, retaliate with aim and not just force, avenge her fallen family etc etc, so won't you help her pretty please Mr.Mikael, she even has a coven of witches who are most definitely not in your bastard son’s pay role should you require assistance of the witchy sort.

Now Mikael wasn't so stupid to entirely trust the witch, he merely snapped her neck to shut her up and went and cashed in on a few favours he was owed amongst the witch community himself, gathered seven marginally competent witches who were more than happy to see the Ultimate Scourge of the Earth decimated, and made his way to Mystic Falls, Now that his bastard was no longer hiding, he’s more than welcome to presume a battle instead of a hunt.

Mikael holds little appreciation for Klaus’s genius, and has underestimated Klaus countless times, but his penchant for miscalculations were not entirely unfounded, Every other time Mikael caught up with Klaus in their millennium old Hunt, the stepson upped and ran, his siblings tagging along, any confrontation was met with Klaus hightailing out of town, and she couldn’t possibly fault him for that, staying and coming face to face with a man who sings himself lullabies imagining the warm coil of your intestines around his palm, while having _exclusive_ access to the one weapon that can kill you irrevocably, is in her honest opinion just plain stupid.

So of course Mikael struts into town with the simple uncomplicated plan that the witches from a protected andinaccessible area would immobilise the Hybrid, he can very well dispatch off two dozen baby hybrids on his own, but he needs magic to subdue Klaus, and once he is restrained and helpless at his feet,

_He will press his soled boot on Niklaus’ forehead and plunge the White Oak stake in the bastard’s feckless heart._

But there was a momentary detour from the original plan, after arriving at the battlefield Mikael was deceived to believe that the sired hybrids offer no resistance to compulsion, so he entered their fray not as surreptitiously as he wanted to be and compelled 18 of the 52 that made up Klaus’ court, the ‘compelled’ hybrids, relayed every word to Klaus, appropriate adjustments were made to the plan, and Klaus waited,

The following night, Mikael entered the grounds of Klaus’ residence and demanded that his stepson have the feeble dignity to grow a spine on his last day on this side of the veil.

so that the bastard may be able to claim that 

‘ _In my thousand years of existence I lived but one day, the day I faced my Author’_

And here the climactic melodrama she appreciates a little too much begins,

One Original Hybrid, and behind him stood half a hundred men with their immortality indebted to their leader’s blood, their nose upturned and chest puffed, armed with vervain stakes infused with wolf venom, 

“Well mates, my author seems to be running out of ink, I suppose his blood is shade blacker, but we shan’t complain.”

Again a single cant of his head,

And they Charge. 

She admits somewhat reluctantly that now they were a pride of lions as opposed to the army of ants they were in front of her.

Mikael calmly yells out the trigger word for the compelled hybrids to turn on Klaus, 

They don't, 

He is momentarily stumped, but he gathers himself perfectly fine, after all a good plan always leaves sufficient room for miscalculations. 

Now, Mikael is an Original Vampire, The Destroyer, Thousand years of steadily gathered _Terror_ permeates him and the air around, and of course his cannibalistic diet can’t be ignored either, 

But what starkly sets him apart, was not his opaque tenebrosity, or the smoke of flowing Phlegethon he captures as breath within his lungs, his vampirism accounts for little when it comes to the fear he directly injects into the atmosphere.

What actually set him apart was the fact that he was a true warrior Viking, ruthless and barbaric, He was more beast than these wolves could ever dare to be.

He tore them Limb from Limb, ripped them flesh from bone, blood splattered, entrails leaked, skin caved and heads released from shoulders, it was a macabre dance of flesh and fear, 

A combat style none of these hybrids could dare fathom let alone counter, they didn't stand a fighting chance, They were cannon fodder.

But they got in a few hits, hybrid venom bled into the Destroyer’s veins and weakened him significantly, here they were Forward foot soldiers who weren't entirely useless, 

Then exactly when Mikael was about a quarter way through his hybrids, grass streaked a deep red more than green, peeled flesh and broken limbs littering the grounds, when the scent of fear and blood coincide that a vampire finds blood less appetising, Klaus orders for them to fall back, calls them back to retreat with such _regard_ written on his face, like he couldn't bare to loose another single one of his hybrids, implores them in a thick yell to return, the hybrids hesitate, they want to fight for their sire, their Alpha, but they are moved enough to listen, 

Predicted by Klaus, Mikael sees this as a sign of weakness, Klaus’ apparent need to protect, No, preserve his hybrids, he perceives it as spineless lonely desperation, mercy and respite, Men worthy of mounting Sleipnir, do not dole out with such ease.

And here the hybrids are Red herrings, for when momentarily savouring his victory in strength of character against Klaus, lost between the fumble of the hybrids’ retreat, Mikael fails to notice three other Vikings cross the border, 

A moment of distraction is all it took for Elijah, Rebekah and Kol to ambush Mikael, 

And he looks at his own blood with such betrayal etched across his face, Klaus finds it hilarious,

And if the three siblings relive their entire thousand year old existence, behind their eyes and with solidarity think, 

‘We’ve chosen right. For Klaus is a far worse enemy than Mikael.’ 

Klaus doesn't show he noticed,

He did after all give them their respective daggers, declared that with Mikael soon to be vanquished he finds no use for them, the siblings felt as though, Klaus had with all the ease of poking a hole in a paper with the point of the dagger, tore through the caged existence they led with their brother, 

It was a novelty like no other to have found the security of their own will dictating their life, instead of Mikael or Klaus.

Or at least thats what she imagines the siblings felt, she abhors with such intensity the idea of an induced dreamless slumber, incapacitated, non-living in every form short of actual death. She doesn't even know how long she was under one such incapacitated sleep, beneath Barbossa’s Aegina, the Venetians of the fair little Island lost their land to theTurks, because she woke from a slumber she does not even recall lying down for.

Now if Klaus had those daggers spelled in such a way that in a moments notice he may find their location, regardless of how well it is hidden, he doesn't tell them, but they will always suspect it just a tiny bit.

Elijah holds Mikael’s head and upper body down to the ground, Rebekah his right side limbs and Kol his left, Mikael thrashes in wait for the incompetent witches he chose over the women who woke him to intervene, they were disposed off by the companions of the woman he didn’t choose. 

Klaus in all his “ _Destroyer_ , here be your final stage, a gibbet.” glory walks in head held high, fingers firmly clasped.

And horrors upon horrors for Mikael, he holds there in his hand a neatly carved white oak stake, no it’s not the eloquently carved piece he has tucked in his left breast pocket, spelled that only he may be able to access it, no this one was sleek and sturdy, none of the ostentation Mikael’s stake boasted, and firmly clasped in his stepson’s hand pointed at him, 

When he spat out the predictable “Where did you get that, _boy_.” 

“Never you mind, father, that’s a _bridge_ you’ll never get to cross.”

She may have expected grand declarations of “Here I bequeath upon thee, mine wroth that thy tarnished soul verily beseeched from mine own hand, befouled Destroyer, kicketh the bucket.” 

but there was none of that, 

He simply regarded his father,

“Had I shared your blood Mikael, had I been your son, had my entire existence not been summed up to equal mother’s infidelity and nothing more, would you have not hated me as you do now?”

And damn him, Klaus’ thinks, It’s always he who enables Mikael.

Sensing that this is probably the last bit of villainous monologuing that he is ever going to be able to do, he puts his venom and soul in it.

“Ah, Niklaus, such misconceptions little bastard. You see back when we were men made of blood not borrowed but our own, I never hated you boy.”

Klaus would’ve spat out water if he was drinking it, But of course Mikael was quick to clarify,

“But I never loved you either, you incensed me and I was always displeased with you, but I couldn’t spare you the privilege of a sincere sentiment, you were never worth my hate or my love, my wrath however, I agree, you bore the brunt of it, Esther deceived me to believe you my child, yet I couldn’t cherish you for instinct warned me otherwise. But when I was revealed of your true lineage, you wouldn’t dare imagine what I felt,”

A disbelieving scoff here,

“It was _relief_ , relief that such a piteous creature had only shared my home but not my blood. Even then I couldn’t be bothered to execrate your name, why I recall the hours of the night you turned to _beast_ to be the only day you managed to inspire a favourable thought from me. My rage and betrayal were directed at your mother, I impaled your sire to wound Esther, I forced her hand to bind your Curse for she knew the only other possibility I will allow is your death, and your death, _son_ , meant nothing more to me than a means to a end, to seek retribution."

A ragging derisive snort here, while Klaus contemplates if self-flagellation was maybe the only avenue of interest he shared with Finn.

"Does it ruin you _boy_? To know that the years of torment you suffered at my hand as a measly human coward was _never_ about you. Does it enrage you to know, the world didn't have the decency to deign you a mere acknowledgement as it damned you, Does it you _bastard_? That not even your own damnation could be bothered to spare you a moment of heed, for I certainly never allowed you any residence in my mind. You were always beneath it.”

It does ruin him, deep and hollow, and it does not surprise him that it does.

Klaus has never found Mikael's smile drawable, it's finicky in nature, not the smile, his hands when he draws him, and not to mention he can count on his fingers the number of times he's raised his head high enough to see it, and now that he has seen it, sitting there worn and old on his father's cheek, a little demented, a lot over-confident, Klaus can't help but notice, it looks far too much like his own.

“Well _father,_ it was a binary question to be answered with a simple yes or no, but if you insist on—”

“Do not interrupt boy _._ ”

He clamps his mouth close, as he did a human child,

“But that changed. Now, my hatred and ire runs rampant, and you unworthy mongrel, have _earned_ it,”

Klaus contemplates rolling his eyes because his face seemed too idle,

“You earned every last forsaken mite of my condemnation little bastard. For a thousand years I chased you to the curving ends of Midgardr, not a moment of respite did I grant. Every hearth you set alight as home, I burnt to ashes, New Orleans speaks of such _fond_ memories. Every day, of each year, in the millennium past you thought of me and _trembled."_

He whispers, conspiringly the last word, a secret between son and father, but secrets do not always attribute truth, this one however did.

It was true, he could live a millennium more, or three, and it would always remain true.

"Tell me boy, did you pale and quiver at the sound of my name or perhaps your knees buckled and knocked together, hm? _Tell me_ , tell me you _COWARD!”_

He bellowed the last word, spit spraying and hands thrashing that the siblings had to double down to keep him still, Klaus doesn’t waver in his gaze but neither did he choose to answer, he doesn’t deny or agree to it, 

For a man laying on the ground restrained and two minutes from his death, he sure does have lot to say, she always thought minute long monologues by villains during their final moments, was only a fictional fancy humans enjoyed in modern storytelling, apparently it wasn't.

“I broke you Niklaus, but I also watched you break my children, those daggers of yours have ruled their immortal lives no more than I have, you always were the weak link in the family, breaking you was amusingly effortless, but you steadily corroded your siblings in turn. You lived every waking moment dreading the day I as your reaper decide your time is finished. I never did let you live boy, did I? Not since you were a human, as vampire you existed as weak _prey_ , creatures as monstrous are conquerers, but you struggled and thrashed to survive, if today is to be my very last, I will passover to whatever ruination that awaits me accomplished, for as long as I remained on earth I may not have slain you as my fingers itch to do, but I never let you _live_ either.” 

He readies himself with the final blow, absolutely sure that _His_ children will let up on him, and if not consciously by choice then at least the momentary surprise will favour him.

“Just as I ceased to live the day I beheld you clutch Esther’s heart in your wretched hands.”

She believes even the pauses are cinematic.

He expects his children to _startle_ and loose grip. Instead to Mikael’s unpleasant surprise and Klaus’ satisfaction, 

Rebekah just holds on tighter, nails digging in and shifts her gaze to the ground,

Kol keeps looking at Rebekah hoping she’d just meet his eyes for a second and give him some indication, _some_ sign that, ‘Yes brother, siding with our mother’s murderer over our eternal tormentor is alright, its what we do, we either never have a choice or we get ones we could never choose between. It’s alright, we’ll learn to live with it brother, we always do.’

Klaus thinks Kol is entirely too discernible with his thoughts on his face. A jester’s mask would do him some good.

And Elijah, 

Noble Elijah holds Klaus’ eyes as if to say, 

‘Know this Niklaus, my betrayal to you on the accursed night mother bound your Wolf may not be forgiven, but it is nullified, whatever I owe you, I have repaid brother.’

Klaus knows this is not true, that even though Elijah claims he has redressed his sins, he will continue to punish and blame himself for that _‘_ accursed night’ till time has run it’s perineal course dry, 

He knows your shoulders are too heavy brother, but he does quite like the view from up here.

Klaus has sufficiently sat through his share of awkwardly standing there as Mikael monologues, it’s now his turn to spin a spiel as Mikael lays there on the ground.

“Was that supposed to be your last resort? Divulge that I killed my own mother and hope that the sons and daughter you have brought nothing but misery and pain in the last millennium will defect and don your colours,”

His own derisive scoff.

“You are pathetic Mikael. They were made aware of my matricide at my own behest, I'm sure you can imagine why there was no _shock_ factor to exploit. Your entirely too long tirade has sufficiently answered my question, now I do not have a single whit of interest to keep this conversation going, but I suppose its prudent you know that you were wrong— 

I did live my life _father_ , I may have lived it in haste and hiding but I did enjoy the world. Contrary to your belief, my millennium old existence did in fact occur outside of you Mikael. Midgardr has always been ripe and choice for my picking.”

He rolls the stake over his knuckles once, draws sufficient attention to the ongoing threat.

Klaus has always been histrionically appetising.

“The artist in me admired everything the world offered at my feet, soaked it in with a thirst even a vampire’s bloodlust wouldn't dare rival. Great cities, and art, and music…. _genuine beauty_ and I had it all. Every time you chased me out of a city, you turned me towards a new one who’s spirit sung in my veins, My artist, he thrived and thrilled. Ironic isn't it father, for that was the part of me you hated the most, my passion and my hunger, you declared it made me a weakling, that real men with spine of steel and blood of gold, do not coo over the beauty of the first blossom in spring or the fire in the sky at dusk, how many times have you cut me with my own carving blade for merely indulging in _beauty_ , but yet here I stand, thirst ever-present, hunger yet to be sated, and the entire world at my fingertips, my feast.”

Klaus’ holds his eyes, and he let’s everything he’s revelled in, the world that he sought as his own, bleed through. 

“You may have chased me father but I ran the course I chose and you merely followed.”

There’s a pretty vein bulging on Mikael’s forehead Klaus imagines piercing with his nail.

“Pity the same cannot be said for you, but you needn't worry, I'm sure you can have a somewhat hazier and less _touchy_ version of my experience from the other side of the veil.” 

And just like that, Klaus decided that this was more than enough sentimental communication with his stepfather to last him another a millennium and decides to irrevocably put an end to this centuries long father-son angst fest that was apparently the entire summary of his life.

The white oak gripped in his hand was raised to impale, 

But of course Mikael insists he wants another heart-to-heart, this time with Rebekah,

“Kæri minn, hví? skríllinn drap móður þína. Og samt fyrirgefurðu honum? Af hverju?*” 

*(My lovely, Why? The Bastard killed your mother. And yet you forgive him? _Why?_ )

Klaus believes Mikael’s terribly desperate if he’s reverting back to an endearment he stopped using the day Rebekah as a human girl, merely Ten and four, decided to heft a sword that was half as tall as her and stand between the bastard and the father, steel point of sword pointed at her sire.

He doesn't like the fact that Rebekah’s throat audibly chokes back a breath that heaves, 

Now, now dear sister surely you are not deceived by such artificiality. 

Can’t you bloody see, he still vies for an opening to strike.

“Know this father, the only difference is that we love him, but we fear you both the same.” 

Oh and how the White Oak stake _almost_ stutters in his hand.

Yet, he needs to check if he faltered and stabbed himself with the stake for a second, because why else would this burning feeling erupt from his heart, 

* * *

Bekah, 

Little sister what is the meaning of this?

His lungs have not burned with the absence of air in so long,

He feels the need to press his chest, squeeze his own slashed heart,

Tell him why his breath catches at this. Tell him why his eyes turn smooth at those words Rebekah.

He wanted you to fear him, sister. He did, he needed you to fear him, but love him more than your fear, love him more than your hate, 

He’s seen your fear of Mikael, visceral and raw, rack your body and mind, rot your soul. 

How you clung to him with hair matted against your cheek and nails buried in his arms, on those lone nights when even the stars are cowardly enough to hide their craven faces from your misery, asking him to tell you 

“He won’t find us Nik? He won’t, yes?”

How you cave into yourself as shoulders lessen and chin dips, making yourself a smaller target, when you hear his name, and step just a little bit closer to him, every time. 

How much you hated, loathed the suffocating moments you existed as prey when whispers of his name penetrated the fortress he protected you in.

How many times have you looked upon the eternity spread before your monster and hung your head in defeat so absolute he knows those are the days you walk in the sun without your ring Bekah, How many times have you prayed to him, to your dead mother, to every ungodly being you’ve never had a whit of credence for, to just end this, all of this.

You were once willing to end yourself, when the former wasn’t an option, he remembers that night Bekah, in Sankt-Piter-burkh, sat by the ebbing waters of the Neva, eyes focused on the gentler sway of the strugs Kol tried to push away from the embankments with just his finger, 

He smelled saffron and lye in your skin, he believes the blood of a mildly incompetent pauper on your lips and when you pulled close, and placed your head on his chest, he smelled myrrh behind your ears,

You hummed a harvest tune under his chin, and told him all you wanted to do was die. And then remain dead.

He asked you, now the smell of the capital’s putrid runoff being dumped some few miles north of the river strongest in his nostrils, 

Why, such vile cowardly thoughts, why sister. 

And you uttered but one name, so earnestly, as if the morrow’s sunrise hinged upon that one word, 

“Mikael.” 

How you used to beg him with your eyes to just end this torment, _end Mikael. Or end me_. Your eyes would command, then beg.

And here he is Bekah doing exactly as you asked, holding a stake to father’s heart, a single stab away from anointing the first home you’ve ever known, with the Destroyer’s ash. 

Here in Mystic Falls, where it all began he will end it all. 

And you mean to say, you fear him exactly as much?

That you fear him as much you fear the Man who _hunted_ you, the man who gleaned an eternity with the blood of his own kind, just so he may kill his own children,  A man who woke with bated breath each day to hound your ankles as he sought to destroy, to kill, to hollow your body of its soul, for a thousand years, and will haunt you for a thousand more.

A broken hopeless scoff, 

He’s fallen too far, hasn't he.

But damn him, that he let Mikael have the last word, and damn him more, that it was his family that delivered it to him.

But He won’t hesitate. 

He doesn't hesitate, it’s fluid and free, the motion, 

Stab. _Twist._

And his siblings jump back as fire erupts from the pierced flesh, a ruining wild howl escapes the Destroyer’s throat.

And there he feels, he feels as he felt the first time he drowned as a vampire, he felt his throat close and cave, his lungs burn and smoke from the water ingested, he felt his mind thrash within the confines of his skull and he sees the light above the surface diminish steadily, the gradient, the soft release of light into the eye of the dark, his artist thinks he can translate it to a metaphor of the eyes’ pupil only diminishing in the face of light.

Another wave rushes over his head and he stops fighting,

His heart clenches for his body to convulse, and his lungs disappear, he thinks its quite opaque, this black.

Even with the flames of his father burning under his nose, this black is quite opaque.

And he’s never known this feeling, 

It’s neither freedom, nor peace. However much he expected it to be so.

It isn't security or even triumph, he expected more. 

He’s felt all of those emotions before, as elusive interstices, as grains of coarse sand that slip from between his fingers as a rhythmless cascade, yet he’s felt them all the same, but now he’s no longer by the sand or the shore, here he drowns in the most stateless black of the ocean.

Here he drowns in this one single moment,

It’s Salvation.

He’s never known this feeling. But he knows it now,

And worse is he’ll never feel it again,

For he knows he will ruin this too. But for now he will revel in it and surrender.

And here stone bent knees, hold ash to the ground, as wood and fire brings his peridition mercy.

* * *

Like she said, the death of the destroyer was a theatrical crescendo that climbed and climbed till it curved and dropped, 

Once Klaus was left alone with his siblings, and just his siblings, when the world hushed a satisfied yet watchful breath with loosened shoulders and creaking neck, as it finally unlade the weight of the sixth original, and now only had to bear the brunt of five thousand years of cumulated life concentrated into five beings, the crescendo dips.

The siblings don't communicate, after the ashes cool, and hybrids disperse, after the smell of burnt flesh dissipates in the air and their heart’s stopped trying to cave in itself, in that exact order. They don't speak, no grand declarations of familial love, no confessions of deceit, or confrontations of past lies, or for that fact there wasn't even a celebration for their recent victory, not even a freaking grunt or a cough exchanged. They simply shared glances and the bottom of four gorgeously aged bottles of scotch that are older than twice the age of most war veterans in America.

Now the hybrids, ironically enough, they had a lot to say, their Beta, Klaus’s second in command, a certain Philip, a direct underling to his sire spoke on the packs behalf. A speech prepared with less effort than the escape route.

Philip cleans a palm down his jeans and decides not to clear his throat, thinks better of drawing attention to his neck.

“So let me just start off by saying this,  We know that we don't know much about you Klaus, but from what we gathered today and from the last eleven months, we know that you’re basically a crazy fucking asshole.”

The sire bothers himself enough to raise an eyebrow in his liquored stupor

“Batshit crazy,” He clarifies. “In other words, you’re a shitty person. I mean you killed your own mother man, that’s gotta be textbook fucking psychotic."

He smirks from behind the rim of his glass, Go on mate, tell him how unhinged he is,

Philip beelines to the point, 

"But what we also know is that you don’t care too much about us, just the right amount to keep us first in control and then alive. None of us, I mean nobody in this damn room is a cold-blooded killer like you and _most_ of us don't want to become one, but here’s the thing, we can’t judge you for being shit worse than that when all of us standing over here is a killer, I mean like we all killed _someone_ or we wouldn't be wolves, right guys?”

Sweet catholic Philip who went to Sunday school on Wednesdays and Sundays, looks to the rest of the pack for their approving kinda accepting nods.

“So we don't really descend with white shawls and halos ‘round our head and thats why we won’t hold you to any standard, because we are a lot of things man, but we try not to be hypocrites. So yeah, we just wanted you to know, that we see you as our alpha, but more importantly as part of our pack, nothing that happened yesterday changed that. We’ll have your six as long as you have ours.” 

Klaus is now bothered to raise both eyebrows,

Philip turns to leave his sire alone, speculates that he’s probably entering femur snapping territory right about now, but there’s a reason Klaus chose him to be his lieutenant. 

He turns around,

“We aren't going to hold you to a standard, but we’ll always hold you accountable to the pack Alpha. We trust you not to screw us over and you can count on the pack maybe a percent of what you count on yourself, and we kinda know that’s a lot.” 

He tries hard not to swallow but fears his heart stands targeted if not his throat, and hopes the tattoo on his neck doesn't draw the attention he tried to surrender.

And Klaus with a tiny bit of alcoholic emotion bleeding into his voice, says 

“My brothers in arms, My _pack,”_ the word is savoured, and may or may not be whispered underneath his breath to tether it to reality when his demons quite think otherwise _, “_ We lost eighteen of our men yesterday.” 

He places the bourbon down heavily, gives them time to imagine all eighteen faces.

“Now I may have killed their murderer, but their deaths were never avenged, make no mistake, I Killed Mikael—” 

Klaus thinks he should pause to revel in that one sentence, immortalise it on his tongue, even get a tattoo of it on his chest, 

“—for sordidly personal reasons and his death will not be dissuaded from those, but in honour of our slain brethren, we will give them a true Wolf’s funeral, the one I knew my blood father’s tribe conducted to give their fallen a warrior’s farewell. Our men’s lives will be celebrated, their deaths grieved and their presence missed, but immortal they will always remain, for we will carry forward their name for aeons to come. I assure you men, they will have the gift of immortality even in death.” 

Now Klaus does not know how much of that was alcohol and how much of that was him, but he knowsfrom that day on, he did not look at his hybrids as toys or puppets or even chess pieces he controls, he started to look at them as individual beings with emotions and feelings he absolutely controls.

For a single unhinged moment the Alpha contemplates the idea of revealing a niggling little aspect regarding the _structure_ of his relationship with his pack, said aspect was a pesky little detail called the sire-bond he shares with his hybrids, he dutifully shuts down the idea as soon as it came, absolutely sure that this was wholly the alcohol thinking and instead settles for lighting the funeral pyre himself and standing among his hybrids with full sincerity and loss on his face and half a quarter of the sincerity expected from such social occasions in his heart.

The thing is, these hybrids are completely unaware of a certain concept called the sire-bond, that it exists within them, between them. That its been exploited and used in the most elegantly diabolical ways that he was able to finesse his way through liveried slavery, indentured to a forever-contract and made it look like a privilege, a luxury, a freaking home. 

He’s so thorough, its infuriating,

The only reason these half-wolves are oblivious to this bond, is because Klaus inserted its uses only in the most depthless, unreachable shadows of their mind, that it took root and grew and grew in the centre of it all, never breaking the surface of the opaque black recess, but festered and settled within, and since it never saw the light of their conscious mind, their mind’s eyes couldn't possibly be aware of it, let alone observe it.

He never outright used the sire-bond, now that would give him away, nope, it was always coupled with another tangible incentive from the siree’s side that he exploited, 

The hybrids believed that it was genuine gratitude that drove them to obey, and they couldn't resent that, he after all gave them a home and an a brethren, some believed that the added incentive along with their own inherent loyalty, they sometimes detected, was actually the pull of the Alpha’s Dominance,

Klaus was a direct descendant of the Alpha of one of the oldest wolf packs in the world, easy submission solely based on the position he held within the pack, was convincing enough to believe, nobody questioned it. 

And by the time loyalty skirted the edge of blind devotion, it wasn't entirely because of the sire bond, or for that fact, not even majorly, The Original Hybrid had earned their respect and allegiance by playing God, Creator and Executioner all at once. 

He took good care of what he considered his, and now any one of these hybrids who dispersed after Henrik’s arrival, would gladly put their neck beneath his boot, but Klaus will softly hold their hand while doing it.

Now it is justified to wonder what exactly her ‘sources’ were to find such momentous information, that anybody would think would be a better guarded secret,

Well said sources was actually one long-forgotten, heavily-compelled aspiring Psychologist living in the enchanting Garden District of New Orleans, a pretty little blonde who played at being a ‘stenographer’ for an extensively _complex_ client, 

The shrink-to-be was able to gather information with the depth and credibility no one else could possibly brag about, as it came straight out of the Hybrid’s mouth and went straight down to paper, with absolutely no derailing adaptations, hell half the retelling of his tales she did were exact quotations of his word.

Moreover since it was Klaus’ first hand recollection, he didn't resist the shit-eating grin on his face as he regaled every last one of his machiavellian schemes, how proud he is of his puppet shows and chess games. How his hybrids, who are massively important to him— no denying that, allow him to take and take far more than he gave, how he presented this flag for his hybrids to live under, and he is the wind to choose its course. 

But in his more sober moments he also presents his emotions in neat and painstaking detail, her source apparently had to sit through three hours of Mikael, four hours of Elijah and seven hours of Rebekah in the first week of her appointment, 

And as she suspected this was no emotionally-stunted man who didn't understand his feelings for others, or didn't have the grace to deal with something as taxing as sentiment, no its nothing that neanderthal, he understands human emotions better than anyone, he wouldn't be such an accomplished intrigant if he weren’t, he knew how to manipulate feeble wandering thoughts, and soldered emotions alike, because he understood how they worked, he just believes he's an exception to the effects of emotion rather than emotions itself. 

Of course the now dismissed psych-student is under air-tight compulsion that wouldn't lift even in the off chance accident of her turning into a vampire, perks of being an Original, so he rests assured his plotting and scheming and most importantly, his dear diary moments would remain forever buried.

Well, rookie mistake. 

All she had to do was siphon the magic that held the compulsion in place and compel the girl anew to tell her everything Klaus did starting from him breaking his Curse to present day, apparently he had stopped seeing her once she ceased being an important bargaining chip in his Kingdom-contest against Marcel, but everything that happened after he came to New Orleans she already knew, she didn't need the stenographer to tell her those significant happenings,

What with Esther being the prime reason she made her way here to New Orleans before she found Henrik, during the same time when the Witch community of NOLAsummoned the Originals to the consecrated grounds of Esther’s resting place, at the Original Witch’s command from beyond the veil. 

And as for everything that happened before the Curse was broken, she doesn’t need to know for her plan to work, nor does she want to know, she does have some concept of the term privacy thank you very much.

And now here she is, seven exact feet from Henrik, in a room that smelled of faded vellum and carbon ink, the soot from the fireplace masking the scent of dried blood smeared on a jagged corner of the bookshelf she’s leaning on, Rebekah’s eyes twinkling with laughter as Henrik puts his head under her chin to kiss her shoulder, Klaus hands bound tensely behind his back, doing his utmost to not snatch away Henrik from the others,

And she sees she can always find Klaus’s eyes the moment she looks for it, 

He's a touch too aware of her.

She allows the Heretic, not vampire, the nexus between her contrariety as being of both magic and death, bleed through her eyes, where he should find blackened eyes and blacker veins, he finds glowing demon red, pupils absent and vast, it’s a pretty picture when she drinks, when her lips are coated of the same red as her eyes, the crimson veins crawl not just her cheek but her temples and forehead too.

If the sun bled red, it wouldn’t shine as bright as her eyes did, and the red bleeds from her irises to the white of her eye, until it’s hell she reflects in her gaze, and doesn’t the devil see home in the crimson of her eye. 

His hands flex once and leave his back to settle at his side. She is no prey.

She lets her fangs skim the edge of her lip, the blood drips to the corner of her mouth and he parts his lips, she’s aware that he feels her power in the skin beneath his nails, she knows he’s trying hard not to blink as it pierces the corner of his eyes, and bands itself around his chest, it hollows around his legs, stamps itself on his knees. The web between his finger is being picked at, and his ears shiver. 

She’s no predator either.

She pushes off the mahogany she’d been leaning on and turns invisible, walks out the room her steps silent, she knows tendrils of her power have wrapped themselves around this creature she fears and loathes. He’ll follow, he can’t help himself, they always follow.

The creature is remarkable, she finds he is steadily able to follow the dissipating trail of her magic without faltering, she supposes she made an impression on him, or maybe he just knows his own kind.

He’s a bit dazed when he finally stands before her, intoxicated in her presence, drunk on her power, eyes blink once and throat swallows twice, she reaches a finger up, not to touch his skin, but slides the knife edge of her magic across his jaw, and he takes a step closer.

“The tale of Henrik’s return is a tremendous one indeed sweetheart. Beauty and grace and courage, against the vanquishing powers of the wicked immoral witch, how very on brand of my family.” 

It should be telling of one’s character when sarcasm and delusions can’t be told apart, she really doesn't know if he’s joking or posturing.

“Wicked immoral witch is a part I do very well, I’ve even got the cat for it, but I like to shake things up every once in a while. Dame in shining armour had an opening and I thought why not.”

“Now what I do not appreciate about the story is that” He gestures to her, “This witch—” 

“Herectic.”

She knows he’s imagined a tongueless Caroline approximately 18 times in the last two hours they spent recounting the tale of Henrik’s impossible return. She’s sure he’ll loose count in a day or two.

“—cannot be killed. Not even by the standards of vampires.”

Right to the point she sees, this man apparently forgoes finesse with finesse.

“I _am_ pretty permanent,” She agrees genially, then narrows her eyes. “What gave that away.”

Forgive her if she thinks those blooming dimples are decadent, 

He breathes in the words he is about to expel from the air, warms it with his tongue and honeys it with his lips, till its vast and unassailable, 

“The world is not so foolish nor capable as to take away such power, it wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

Well she agrees, she’ll burn the world when it’s her end, she’s petty like that. 

“So I can’t die. So what, that upsets you?”

“No, You can’t be killed and that irks me.” 

His smirk widens further, apparently murder declarations made him giggle.

But she finds no interest in continuing this line of conversation, it’s a touchy subject. She instead decides finesse is overrated too.

“Henrik is not your salvation, nor your redemption.”

“We’ve been through this once already, It doesn’t speak well to call me your equal and insinuate I’m a fool in the next breath, love.”

“Elijah seems to think so, he's set on seeing Henrik’s shoulder as the final pedestal to your shiny new redeemed self.”

“And what does that say about my brother sweet Caroline, He has walked this earth as long as I have, has amassed years behind his eyes Dynasties have yearned to see, yet here he is nursing a fancy so frail, it’s unfounded the naivety my brother still harbours after a millennium long life.”

She doesn't need to say it out loud, but she will, for him to hear, the inanity of his brother's claim over Henrik,

“It says he’s an hopeful fool.” 

She breathes in cedarwood and blood, the citrus tickle of bergamot and the pepper of vetiver, Forgive her if she finds _him_ decadent.

“And I, am a hopeless one.”

She won’t deny it.

“Will you ruin him?”

“Do you really think that low of me?”

Why is that even a question?

“ _Yes_.”

“It was a rhetorical question sweetheart,” He clarifies, “And the answer is no, I will not _ruin_ him.”

Oh she knows, he knows he’s lying.

“If I'd asked you that question when you were a baby vampire you’d have said the same thing about Rebekah and yet here we are.”

“And what pray tell little Heretic, do you know of the Original family in it’s toddler days?”

She informs as she walks over to lean on the balustrade, turning her back on him.

“Well I admit I don’t know much but I do know a certain blonde stenographer who would.”

He pauses for a moment allows this disturbing piece of news to settle heavily in his mind, breathe in all the nuanced implications and the jarring upheavel it faithfully lugs around with it, 

“A very heavily _compelled_ blonde stenographer.”

She hums agreeably, 

“One hour.” She calls back to him.

“Pardon?”

“One hour is all it took me to neutralise the compulsion. I’m impressed, that’s the longest I’ve had to siphon out a mind lock, well layered and strategically hidden, that’s _artsy._ ”

She turns back round to face him, 

“This is not a threat, this is an overture I’m willing to make. I've gathered useful information from her, I won’t lie there’s some _real_ dirt I have on you, but if it makes you feel better all of it is from your Hybrid days, nothing before that.”

He let’s this calamity root and rupture, not only does he not have any substantial information on her beyond what she herself offers, but here he is lain bare naked for her perusal. 

She believes the air around tangibly disrupts along with him.

“Just how is this an overture, Hm? I am at a complete disadvantage with an opponent that might just pass to be my equal. And do tell, is this an overture for trust? For an alliance in the name of Henrik? Do not pretend for this to be anything less than an absolute threat Witch-pire, one I will eliminate at it’s neck.”

“Okay first of all, you need to stop calling me _Witch-pire_ every time you get cranky, and second, this is the farthest thing from an alliance of trust, what I’m asking from you is an overture for _weakness,_ leverage over one another. I have dirt on you, you have dirt on me, basically an alliance formed on mutual… _damage_ —” 

He has a lot to say on the subject, but she’s not finished yet.

“—And _third_ of all, Denial is not a cute look on you Klaus, the faster you accept that I am nothing less than your equal and everything more the easier all of this will sail.”

It doesn't surprise that he will pry his attention from a leering threat, to find a soft pliant spot to pierce his rusted teeth in, finds that the threat is less remarkable, if not at equal footing then in a broken one,

“How ravenously you insist to be my equal little Heretic, one could easily mistake it for a need for validation if you’re not careful.”

She blinks,

Seriously _that_ is all he gathered from her sales pitch. 

He crowds her, makes his presence not just known but acknowledged, beautiful vetiver and cedar gathers in her nose, it’s unfair how she wants to lick his neck just to taste the spice on her tongue. But she’s sufficiently tired with men mansplaining her feelings to her,

She huffs an amused breath, “Your validation is the least of my concern, little wolf, but please continue to derail off topic with your conjectures, I’ve had to deal with one psychoanalysing blonde to get the information I need, what’s another one.”

“Ah, so I have touched a nerve.” 

He’s dreadfully proud of this, 

Validation she has never sought you impudent mongrel, she can very well have a creature mighty as you dissipate as foul smoke at her fingertips, infallible you are not, invincible you are never. 

She does not appreciate validation being switched with acceptance, and she does not appreciate you holding power over the one soul who has found it in himself to offer her that, because yes, Family is power. Power over the one’s you love.

She will not ruin you should you ruin him as you have done to your immortal family. 

She will _eat_ you alive. 

She will devour you, bite by bite, piece by piece. 

She’ll make a home for you within her where she’ll string you up by the neck, peel your skin with perfect nails and cut your flesh with jagged knife till she reaches your soul, and there she’ll have her true feast, she’ll smear your blood over her body and wrap your breath around her tongue, she will make you hers, until you’ve never had an existence outside of her.

So thread carefully little wolf, she intends to show you her curse to destroy you, should you force her hand.

“The only part of me you will ever touch is maybe the sole of my boot Hybrid, that is if I’m feeling generous on occasion. I don’t seek validation from a man who calls himself the devil, when I’m a creature the devil will worship to stay alive.”

It really does bother her how much he’s enjoying this discussion, he’d probably jerk himself off to her words if he could. 

“Do no waste my time Klaus, I need to go pack Henrik’s belongings and bring them _here_ ," she feels a bitter taste on her tongue, "Go over my offer till then, a weakness for a weakness. It’s how we keep each other in check, saves us the trouble of trusting each other, not that I can imagine us doing that but you get my point.”

She turns again, offering her back to him, and starts walking away with purpose, only she knows the intensity of the mental pep talks she’s going to have give herself to so much as think of her bedroom without Henrik’s scent in it.

“I could always just kill the stenographer, that ends any leverage you will have over me.” He calls triumphant to her back,

She pauses, Do not insult her so little wolf, she’d like to see your face as she corners you.

“Sure, if you _find_ her. After the physical, mental and locational makeover I’ve given your stenographer, I’d really like to see you try.”

It’s about time he understands she isn’t the rookie here, she’s no floundering fool, Camille O’Connell, did not even manage to retain her own name or face after she was done with her, six layers of glamour spell have made the psychologist a bald Sinhalese Buddhist monk in Sri Lanka, compelled to a modest life of chores and prayers, every juicy dangerous detail of your precious diary perfectly locked deep within the girl’s mind only accessible by one _little_ Heretic that stands here. 

“And if you believe one human full of vague manpain ramblings is not much of a weakness, well you should know I figured out the last remaining source of white oak through your rants, sure you burned down that bridge, but apparently not all of it, so I’d really give this offer some thought.”

His face tangibly twists, and cue him calling her a Witch-pire in three, two—

“ _Witch-pire_ , weakness for a weakness you say yet you have access to secrets and weapons I will simply resort to kill out of the earth or else be killed by. This is no offer, this is a threat, and you will do well to remember forcing my hand will never go unpaid.” 

The amount of vitriol bleeding through the word Witch-pire actually makes her hate the word more, which till now she thought was impossible.

“Well if it’s not an offer, then consider this levelling the playing field. I think that’s decent enough of me.”

“And what exact weakness of yours would be considered levelling to the possible death of my family and I.”

“First of all, I would never _kill_ your family, your family unfortunately enough is Henrik’s family, and I would rather find a way to kill myself than hurt him.”

Oh she knows the statement is a bit much, the emotion in her voice more so, but Klaus is not taken aback, he is only sufficiently alerted once more to the depth of her devotion for Henrik.

“It’s why we are exchanging weaknesses, because we can’t possibly use the leverage we have over one another without hurting Henrik. It _stays_ our hand.”

She knows it’s a wonderful idea, Leverage that is nullified only in the hands of one another, but the moment Henrik is hurt, all bets are off the table.

“And what would this be for you, what weakness of yours could possibly affect Henrik that it would stay _my_ hand.”

It's been centuries since she had something as humble as a weakness by her side Hybrid, she's far too unfathomable to be subdued, she's never cared for one either, but life seldom does allow novelties to remain novelties and habits to remain perpetual, she has considered the banality of a weakless existence and found it quite lonely, a horrible side effect of being untouchable,

“To put it simply, let’s just say, if I hurt you, it will, and it saddens me to say this, hurt pumpkin, but the only way to destroy me is if you destroy Henrik.”

Yes Wolf, you heard her right, her only weakness happens to be Henrik, the one person you’d probably think thrice about before even touching, once in doubt, twice in self-loathing.  The one person you’d probably allow yourself to be nicked skin-deep in the chest with white oak for, maybe the only living being you would gladly go down on one knee, if not in submission then just to be at eye level. 

So yes, she’s satisfactorily convinced it will bind your hands against her, just as Henrik’s fondness for you halts hers. 

She doesn’t trust you, but she is reckless enough to gamble her peace on your love for Henrik, she knows the only way to live a life in New Orleans beside Henrik is to hold you behind a line you believe you will never dare cross. And that is exactly what she’s doing.

“I’ll take my leave now.” 

She doesn’t allow him a moments breath before disappearing, but she’s a bit of a tease, she allows her magic to wrap around him, it enters his airways through his nose, fists itself in his gut through his mouth, it digs into the hollow of his throat and cascades down his body to clasp at his ankles, and he’ll stay that way, chained in her essence for the next day or so, or maybe a week, month if she’s feeling like it, His scent she carries with her, this is merely a favour redone.

“ _Caro!_ Caro halt up.”

She turns at the call of his voice, attention habitually fixing solely on his bounding form. He comes to a stop before her and heaves a breath, and another.

“You’re exiting to go get my belongings, yes?”

“That, and a froyo.”

“Well take me with you then." 

She raises an eyebrow, He rolls his eyes,

"You musn’t do my work for me Caro, It’s unbecoming for a women to bear the brunt of labour mother used to say.”

“As gaga as your mother was pumpkin, no offence but her advice needs to come with parental advisory of it's own.”

“Well, no offences received." He claims, "But that’s maybe because I don’t know what _gaga_ means.”

“Then note it down in your head, I’ll tell you what it means when we go through vocabs Sunday morning. But more importantly, regarding the _'brunt of my labour'_ Fill in the blanks for me Henrik-

Division of labour between men and women in society is _a_ …...?” 

“ _Social Construct_.” He dutifully declares. Just as she taught him.

“But doesn’t stop me from being your provider and protector, Caro,” He broadens his shoulder and tips up his chin, “Allow me to be so?” He wiggles an eyebrow

She runs a soft hand down the nape of his neck, sees his chest widen only further, face constrict in what was supposed to be the countenance of a galant provider and protector,

She can’t help the tiny giggle or the blush,

“Well you’re definitely failing Fem.Lit, but yes my _caretaker,_ Lead us to our humble abode.”

He too giggles, but in a very manly way, he insists. And offers his elbow, chin never lowered

He leads her towards the courtyard, brisk and steady, legs extending a tad tightly in his jeans to stay ahead of her steps, 

“Halt Caro.”She runs into him as he stills, He points to the far end of the courtyard, “Why is brother standing there all….. _woozy?_ ” 

She doesn’t bother a glance at brother Woozy,

“You’re brother is an alcoholic Henrik, it’s part of the gig.” 

“You doused him in your magic didn’t you?” 

She doesn’t appreciate the accusing stare.

“Ok, so what if I did.”

“He’ll snap out if in an hour, yes?”

“Or a week.” She nods

He mulls over this for a second. Shrugs.

“Or a week it is.” 

And plows on with purpose, her gentleman leading them to their humble abode, that will no longer be home without him in it. 

She can't wait for the empty halls and emptier smiles. The bigger bed and louder silence, she may or may not indulge in a few more _accidents_ on her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the time to read this story,  
> Your reviews, comments, likes are not just appreciated but demanded (jk) but like no seriously, your feedback is what drives me to sit back down in front of my computer and type away, it's my motivation and reward, reading your comments telling me you enjoyed this as much as I loved writing this is like a concentrated shot of sunshine and just plain joy in my life.  
> Absolutely look forward to hearing your thoughts, and constructive criticism is wholly WELCOME. (Rip me apart softly though.)
> 
> Don't worry I do not intend to keep you guys waiting for long.  
> I pinky promise.
> 
> LOVE  
> xx  
> Srishti.


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